


Spectre

by a_dusky_gold



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Anal Sex, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arcanists, Awesome Charlie Bradbury, BAMF Castiel (Supernatural), BAMF Dean Winchester, Bad Parent John Winchester, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Blood Magic, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Body Horror, Brother-Sister Relationships, Canon-Typical Violence, Castiel and Mary Winchester Meet, Dead Mary Winchester, Dean Winchester Has Magic, Destiel Harlequin Challenge (Supernatural), Family Feels, Historical Fantasy, Historical Inaccuracy, Hunter Castiel (Supernatural), Lucifer is Called Nick (Supernatural), M/M, Magic Revealed, Magic-Users, Magical Artifacts, Memory Magic, Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural), Post-War, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:47:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 29,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25891561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_dusky_gold/pseuds/a_dusky_gold
Summary: This whole thing… this was supposed to be a fucking farce. A way to keep Nicholas Vaught occupied until the deadline he’d given Dean would run out, and he’d still get the money to send Dad to the Town Hall rehabilitation for alcoholism, because that was the goddamned deal.There were no such things as ghosts or magic or a Book of Life. Dean knows, okay? He wasn’t the Army’s goddamned Mystery Raider for nothin’; he knows history, he knows artifacts, and he knows that the Book of Life is an ancient myth that is about as real as werewolves or vampires.And yet.“The Book of Life,” the man had said. Dean can’t even remember his name.Shit, shit, shit.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 9
Kudos: 82
Collections: Destiel Harlequin Challenge 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Woah, it's been a hot minute since I posted anything. To anyone still reading/waiting for updates, thank you so so much, and I promise I haven't abandoned anything. I do plan to return to all the fics, just as soon as I'm able to! 
> 
> This Harlequin Fic has been hard. I've been stressing out over it for the past few months, even without 2020 being garbage, but I'm super happy with how it turned out at the end. It remains unedited (mostly because I wrote the entire second half in fifteen hours straight and am too bleary-eyed to be able to edit properly), and all mistakes, as ever, are my own. 
> 
> To my partner, [ Aceriee, ](https://missaceriee.tumblr.com/) seriously, thank you so so so much! Look at all this [ beautiful art ](https://missaceriee.tumblr.com/tagged/DHC2020spectre) they made! They've been extensively patient with me as I kept vanishing on them through the whole time we've been working on this, and I adore them so <3 <3 Thank you for working with me on this :* 
> 
> As always, please be careful while reading! I've tagged as best as I can, but if I'm missing please lemme know. My angst-meter tends to be higher than anybody else's, so keep an eye on the tags. Please also note that I'm tagging this as Historical Inaccuracy - the original summary claimed was post World War. While I have tried to keep the settings somewhat set in a post-War era, I also did not think I could do justice to a full post-World-War setting, so I've kept references deliberately vague. Also, I needed Dean to call Cas "dork" and have the Beetles reference. I make no apologies. 
> 
> Enjoy!

****

**Chapter 1**

**_C A S T I E L_ **

It’s not that Castiel does not trust his Hunters. He does. He just will not allow anyone else to take the blame for him. If this mission goes wrong, the only one who will face Michael’s wrath will be him. 

Well, him and Charlie. But it’s not like she would have let him go at this alone. He’d tried. 

_Don’t you even think about accidentally losing the loquitur._

As though on cue, her voice echoes loudly in his ears. Castiel rolls his eyes and clutches at said pendant, thinking back at her. ** _Are you saying you would not be able to track me down if I did?_**

The sense of a huff. _Of course I will,_ she snaps. _But I’d rather spend my energy on helping track down the Book of Life than chasing you down._ A pause. _I still don’t get why you need to do this by yourself,_ she grumbles. 

Castiel does not answer immediately, focusing instead on the long jump before him. He is at the top of the church that overlooks the Ketch mansion. The crisp fall air cools the light sweat on the back of his neck and from the corner of his eyes, he can see the moonlight highlight the beige undertones of his trench-coat. Castiel sighs slightly before removing his glasses to rub at his eyes. 

_Cas?_

**_One moment, please._ **

Charlie falls silent. Castiel sets his glasses back on his nose, and then squints at the building in front of him, carefully measuring the distance required. This neighborhood belongs to the wealthy - it would not do to get caught in here. The Night-Hunters may have contacts in the government, but even a Bunker-Head would be in trouble if he gets caught in the middle of what is essentially a robbery. 

He holds his hands out and closes his eyes. It takes a moment of concentration - longer than he’d like to admit - before the bow appears in front of him. To the untrained eye, it would look solid gold with intricate design work, but any sorcerer would recognize the _balance_ and _precision_ sigils on it. 

Closing his eyes, he holds the bow up, and focuses on the point he needs. The arrow - also covered in sigils - appears in his fingers much faster than the bow. Breathing a sigh of relief, Castiel pulls the long rope out of his pockets and ties the end of it to the outer edge of the arrow. Checking that the knot is secured tightly, he nimbly hops up on to the railing, and steps into position.

Castiel pulls the string taut, the arrow at the ready. He aims at the tree, right at the edge of the Ketch estate’s grounds. 

One heartbeat. 

Two -

The slight twang of the bow’s string echoes in his ears as the arrow flies silently through the air to bury itself into the trunk of the tree he needs. He doesn’t smile, exactly, but Charlie would have recognized the satisfied glint in his eye. 

_**I have explained many times, Charlie,** _ he replies to her earlier grumbling, **_that I cannot afford to let anyone else do this._** He hooks the bow through the rope and then ties the other end to the big tank-like structure on the rooftop. To be safe, he adds a _protection_ sigil right next to it, before turning back to test the strength of the rope. It is taut and strong, and he decides that it will hold. 

_I still don’t understand why you want to hold yourself responsible._

**_The Book of Life,_** he says a little impatiently, **_was stolen under my watch._**

 _Not like you were the one stealing it,_ she retorts. 

**_No, but that is not how Michael would see it._ **

He does not wait for her to reply. Instead, he threads his hands through the empty space between the two wooden pieces of the bow and steps back on to the railing. _Deep breath,_ he thinks, and then lets go. 

The line, true to form, holds tight. Castiel lands nimbly on his feet, right in front of the tree trunk. Taking a moment to thank God, he turns back towards the rooftop he just jumped from. He holds up an open palm, and then closes it, making a yanking motion. The end of the rope unknots and comes flying towards him, smacking into the palm he reopened just in time to catch it. 

_Showoff._ He senses Charlie’s amusement through the telepathic link. 

**_You didn’t even see me do anything._ **

_But I know you,_ she replies, smug. 

Shaking his head at his second-in-command’s characteristic running commentary, he swiftly removes the end of the rope embedded into the trunk and sends his bow and arrow back to the Other dimension. 

This close to the mansion, the air is filled with the sounds of life. Voices echo across the light breeze, carrying over to Castiel in distorted reverberations that make him frown. He pulls out his pocket-watch to check the time. 

9.46 p.m. 

_What is it?_ Charlie picks up on his unease as easily as she usually does. 

**_There are people still about._ **

_This late at night?_

**_Indeed._ **

It is not that there shouldn’t be people. Castiel comes from money, he knows how these kinds of mansions operate. The job of servants never ends. What is worrying is the number of servants awake at this time - and there have to be, for this level of noise to occur. 

“Mrs. Moseley,” a booming voice comes. “Please call for the coroner right away.” 

Castiel freezes. ** _Coroner?_**

 _What?_ Charlie yelps. _Cas, what -_

**_Wait._ **

Straightening up, he traces the sigil for _invisibility_ across the air. The familiar tingle of his own magic spreads across his limbs, like cold water from a shower coating his skin on a hot day. A moment later, he holds out his hand, and notes, with satisfaction, that it appears warbled in the moonlight. 

**_I’m going in._ **

_Be careful._

Castiel moves out from behind the tree and follows the booming voice that is now instructing Mrs. Moseley to bring all the servants inside. Suspicion brews at the back of Castiel’s mind, and his steps are measured as he strides across the estate to come to a stop at the entrance to the mansion. 

It is not small, even for the likes of a mansion. Made of pure stone, with two high levels, and a chimney that stands sentinel under the late night hour, it is much more a small castle. The polished glass windows on the first level gleam silver under the moonlight. On the lower level, however, golden light from the inside offsets the moon, and it takes Castiel a moment to realize that the house is powered by electricity. 

_Well, Arthur Ketch_ is _the richest collector in the city,_ Charlie says. 

**_Hmmm._ **

Sighing, he walks towards the entrance. As he gets closer, the noises pick up again, this time in the real world and not in the Other. The figure of the short and stout policeman darkens the doorway, where he is speaking to a Black woman. Her face reflects the distaste Castiel feels - the only thing Marvin Milton has ever been good for is showing up and pissing off the people he is supposed to be helping. 

_And showing off the department tech,_ Charlie supplies. _Don’t forget that._

 _ **How can I?** _ Castiel asks sourly. _**He spent nearly two hours waxing poetic about his new car at me. When he was supposed to be briefing me about the town’s wards.** _As if Castiel hadn’t been the one to commission that car in the first place. They don't usually work with law enforcement, but their last case had required them to do so. 

_Good thing you don’t have to deal with him today then,_ she chirps. 

He grunts in response, nevertheless grateful for the invisibility spell that is still intact. Marvin ignores him, as do the few servants milling about. The Black woman - Mrs. Moseley, he realizes from the research Charlie pulled up, probably the head of the servants or the housekeeper or both - glares at the policeman. Her expression of exhausted disdain is one that Milton seems to bring about in everybody. 

Castiel swallows the snicker that rises in his throat, and walks past. 

The walkway to the entrance is covered on either side by grass hedges that are carefully trimmed. On either side of the front entrance, two gargoyles jut out from the stone, like the broken arm of a tin soldier told to stand guard. Their tongues stick out and their wings are folded in. Their faces are not ugly, exactly, but there is a sadness to them that Castiel does not like. 

**_We might have a problem,_** he says, uneasy. 

_What is it?_

**_Gargoyles._ **

_As in, plural?_

**_Two of them,_** Castiel answers. **_I cannot see their true forms. They seem to be bound to the house as a protection symbol._**

_Shit._

Castiel can feel Charlie’s distaste flowing through the psychic connection between them. He shares it. Naturally occurring gargoyles are far and few in number. More than likely, this was twin Fae spirits that someone caught and bound to serve as sentinel to his estate. The fact that he cannot see their true forms adds credence to the theory that their caught spirits have become so very grotesque that their visage now appears gargoyle-like. 

_**I do not like this, Charlie.** _She hums in affirmation. With a sigh, he walks ahead, slowly describing each thing to her as he sees it.

He is midway through giving Charlie an account of the lawns and the house so that she can finish sketching out the scene when the sound of a soft neigh interrupts him. Castiel turns around to find the source of the sound, when he sees him, at the edge of the roadside. He stops mid-sentence and stares. Dimly, he hears Charlie call his name in question, but he ignores her.

Even hidden behind the huge tree, he is beautiful. A little over six-feet in height, with short, cropped hair that gleams a dark brown in the dim light. He is dressed in brown slacks and a shirt that looks like it has seen better days. Castiel can’t see much of his face from in the shadows, but his heart thumps, once, twice, thrice. 

The horse - a black-colored beast that is definitely getting older - butts him with her head, and the man chuckles, rubbing her flank. Pulling out a handful of something - _sugar? fruit?_ Castiel can’t tell - he holds his hand up to her, and then cocks his head, as though listening to something, and then turns back to his horse. A moment later, he turns around, and his eyes land right on Castiel. 

They are the greenest eyes he has ever seen, the silver edge of the moon highlights specks of gold in them. From this angle, he can see the man’s form, tall and hard muscle built from years of manual labor. Two bow legs, and a pair of overall straps thrown over his shirt, and Castiel doesn’t think he has seen anything this lovely in years. 

_Cas!_

**_Shhhh._ **

He shouldn’t be able to see him. He _shouldn’t_. 

The man frowns. He raises a hand to rub at his face and eyes, and then looks up and blinks again. 

If Castiel were a better man, he would use this distraction to slip away. He would slink back into the shadows, and allow him to think that was just a slip of his imagination. Instead, he steps closer, as if he were a moth drawn to a flame, and watches, as the man’s green eyes go wide in surprise. 

“What the-” he exclaims. 

His voice is deep, much deeper than Castiel could have imagined. 

“Who the hell are you?” he snarls. For a moment, he looks frightened. Then, a cool mask of detached indifference slides over his face. It startles Castiel - it’s an award-winning level of performance. 

He raises his hand, to show that he is not dangerous, when the man draws a gun on him. The barrel of the crude weapon is pointed at him, and Castiel rolls his eyes, leaning forward to press his hands against it. 

“You- you- can’t-” the man fumbles. 

_H-E-L-P_

The cold wind whooshes through Castiel before he can even think back a reply. The call - a cry? a plea? - echoes through the confines of his mind. He throws up his wards, feeling the harsh swoop ram against them. They ram into him once, and then again, and he grits his teeth, concentrating on pushing them back. 

When they finally retreat, he breathes out a sigh of relief - 

\- only to watch the man crumple before him in agony.

 _Cas? Cas!_

He drops to his knees before him, as the gun clatters out of his hand. The man curls in on himself, trying to breathe, and his chest heaves with the effort. Castiel leans in to press his hand against his forehead - his skin feels chilled, sweaty, and Castiel’s brows furrow in recognition. He knows this feeling - one where you feel like you’ve stepped out into the middle of a snowstorm, that first moment of cold and ice repeating itself over and over until you are shaking and whimpering on the ground. Which is exactly what the man is doing at the moment. 

_H-E-L-P, P-L-E-A-S-E_

This shouldn't be happening. The man isn't a conduit - he's no more attuned to the Night-world than any passerby on the street is. Castiel knows every Hunter in the city. He was trained to. And yet, the man is yelling like he has been possessed, which, he has been possessed. 

_Castiel!_

The man reaches his hand out, gasping for breath. Castiel grabs it and squeezes his fingers gently. Closing his eyes, he concentrates. Charlie’s yells of worry. The ground beneath his knees, rough gravel scraping against his skin. The wind, cold and angry, as it whooshes around them. 

Castiel ignores off those cursory sensations and digs deeper. He can hear the man’s grunts of pain - impressive, that he’s still not screaming - and ignores that too. It is only a reaction, a symptom of the thing he is looking for- 

_No-escape-we-need-escape-need-to-get-out-escape-_

There it is. 

Castiel latches on. The man writhes, but Castiel holds him down, and presses the flat of his palm to his forehead and yanks. 

They don’t want to come. 

_No-let-go-we-escape-let-go-let-go-_

_Not him,_ Castiel tells them sternly. _Not him._

He pulls it slowly, agonizingly, inch by inch. They fight him, of course they do, their own agony a hundred thousand times worse, and he feels the hot wetness of tears run down his face as he finally frees the man of their hold. The man rolls away, lying on the ground, panting for breath. 

Castiel steps in front of him, grits his teeth and opens one palm. Painstakingly, he etches the sigil for _rest_ into the air. 

The mind-numbing cold fades a little. 

He pushes against the air, holding both his palms flat against the invisible barrier that pushes against his own mind.

“What-” the beautiful man gasps. 

The spirits let out another anguished wail, one that cuts to the bones, and the part of Castiel that hurts for them wails too. He holds his palm out, summoning his Blade. It materializes in his hand, and he transfers it to his other hand, pointing the sharp end at his own palm. Gritting his teeth, he carves the sigil for _free_ on to his hand. Blood spurts and he lets it - this is a dangerous sigil to use for many reasons, not least of which was the fact that he could lose full use of his hand. 

It works though. _Be free_ , he tells them. He pauses, and then continues, _Ansem. Ava._

He opens his mouth, and feels the cold air run out of him. The Fae escape, darting out in twin globes of light, their screams of joy echoing across his mind. Castiel smiles, watching them weave their way across the sky, and hopes they will be safe now. 

He keeps his power under his skin until they vanish. It is only when they disappear into the moon's silhouette that Castiel stumbles back blindly, willing his Blade to vanish. The man catches him, holding him up. 

“Dude, what the fuck?”

_Castiel, what the fuck?_

Castiel laughs as two voices snap in unison, coming so close on each other’s heels that Charlie sounds like the man’s echo.

 _Manners,_ Castiel reminds her weakly.

Charlie ignores his jab. _What the hell happened?_

Too shaken up to reply, he lets the images float across his brain over to her. A minute later, he feels her own worry and grief project back into the link and winces. 

_That guy that saw you?_

_I stand with him right now. Find him, please._

_On it. Cas…_

_In a moment, Charlie._

_If you vanish, I’m sending Samandriel and the rest of the Hunters after you, I don’t give a shit what Michael is going to say._

He doesn’t reply; he doesn’t need to. They both know that Charlie always does whatever the hell Charlie wants, especially when it comes to the safety of those she loves.

Instead, Castiel focuses on the man in front of him, who is now glaring at him. He’s clutching at a knife - Castiel did not see where it came from - and he holds it up as threateningly as he can. Which is not much, Castiel sees, from the way his hands are shaking. 

“That’s enough,” he snaps, out of patience. 

“Who are you?” the man does not back down. His voice sounds raspy and pained, as though he has screamed himself hoarse.

“I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition,” Castiel replies in a surly voice. 

_That wasn’t technically perdition._

**_And he’s pointing a knife in my face, so I guess we’re even._ **

_You are such a little shit sometimes._

**_Only sometimes?_ **

He feels Charlie’s amusement flit across their link. _His name is Dean, by the way. Dean Winchester, age 29, ex-Army, no current employment listed. A younger brother, an alcoholic father, and a deceased mother._

**_Retried Army?_ **

Pause. Then, softly, _Dishonorable discharge._

**_Well, that’s not good._ **

_It really ain’t._

As though to prove his dishonorable past, the man in front of him glares. “Yeah, thanks for that,” he snaps and lunges forward, thrusting the knife at Castiel’s shoulder. 

It, of course, neatly slides through him, the way it is supposed to when he is in this incorporeal form. He might be vulnerable to supernatural threats, but daily human weaponry cannot harm him. 

The man’s eyes widen. He opens his mouth, as if to ask _what the hell_ \- again - and then he closes it, eyes narrowing at Castiel. “I meant, _what_ are you? What was-what was _that_?” He waves his hand at the air, as though to indicate the faerie spirits who had just tried to possess him. “What the fuck is-?” 

Castiel sighs. He doesn’t have time for this. He sidesteps the man, grabbing his arm and twisting it behind his back and putting pressure on his wrist. The knife clutters down on to the ground, right next to the gun. 

“If you’re gonna kill me,” the man snarls, “Do it now. Or I’m gonna-” 

“What, you’ll cut up my entrails and feed them to me?” Castiel retorts. 

The man snorts, despite himself. “Funny guy, are ya?” 

Rolling his eyes, he raises his hand to trace the sigil for _sleep_ in the air, when another whoosh of air slides past them. 

"What the hell is that?" the man exclaims. 

Castiel’s head whoops around to stare at him. “You can feel that?” he asks. 

“No duh,” the man snaps. “What the fuck is it?” 

_**He shouldn’t be able to feel anything.** _ Castiel grits his teeth. **_I don't have time for this._**

_Take him in with you._

**_What? I can't-_ **

_Cas. You can't let him run around on his own, not if he can see the Night-world. You have to take him along with you._

She's right. He knows she's right, but it doesn't make him feel any better. 

**_Fine. You - you ge_ _t me everything you have on him._ **

_Be careful._

He raises a hand to trace the sigil for _invisibility_ again. A moment later, he sees Dean also go invisible.

It takes him a moment but when he notices, he slaps his palms together and glares at Castiel. “What the fuck did you do?” he snaps. 

Turning around, Castiel starts walking towards the entrance. He does not wait to see if the man - Dean - is following. 

“Hey!” he yells. “Where the hell-”

Castiel stops. “Are you coming?” 

He hears Dean swear behind him, but then, a moment later, he’s following Castiel, “You gonna tell me where the hell we’re going?” he hisses. 

Castiel ignores him. They draw close to the door, where Marv is now commanding Mrs. Moseley to get all the servants back in.

“Who is in charge, now that the Young-Master is dead?” Marv demands. 

**_Dead?_ **

_This is not good._

“Fuck,” Dean swears from next to him. “He doesn’t mean-”

“Quiet,” Castiel hisses. “Or they will hear you.” **_Charlie, get me everything we have on Arthur Ketch._**

“I am,” Mrs. Moseley replies. “Master Ketch was the last of his line. Since he had no kids, it goes to me after.” 

“You?” Marv sputters. “You’re just a-” 

“Just a what?” Mrs. Moseley interrupts him coolly. 

Marv pauses. When he smiles, there is an oily tinge to it, a warning that Castiel reads even before the words come. “Well then,” he says, “You are going to have to come down for questioning, aren’t ya.” 

“I didn’t do nothin’ wrong,” Mrs. Moseley says. 

“You were the last to see him alive, and you’re the one who inherits,” Marv points out. “I need to question you, Mrs. Moseley.” 

_That definitely is not why he wants to drag her down._

“That is not why he wants to get her down there,” Dean snarls, an echo of Charlie’s protest. He looks ready to march over there and grab Marv Milton and thrash him into the ground. 

Castiel grabs his hand, and drags him through the door. Dean struggles for a moment, but then subsides, following him through the door and down the hallway. 

“Where the hell we goin’?” he grunts.

Castiel does not deign to reply. He focuses on the cold presence instead, expanding all his Other senses to figure out where it’s pulling him. 

The insides of the mansion is just as opulent as the outside. The lights are on, the whole house covered in stale yellow glows that make it look older than he suspects it to be. It is quieter inside, most of the servants outside or asleep in the commotion. If the Young Master is dead, that means… 

There. That spot… behind the wall? 

Castiel strides through the door next to the spot on the wall, and finds himself in a stairwell that winds its way up to the first and second levels of the mansion. Behind him, he hears Dean cursing, and then following him up, the two of them in a single-file line to fit in the narrow space.

It widens out into a larger room filled with rows and rows of books. Despite the electrical lighting that is also turned on here, the rows at the opposite end of the room are covered in darkness. The armchair on their end of the room down the rows that begin at the left-side of the room. A little further down, a globe stands on tri-stand, big and round, and gleaming gold-blue in the dim lighting. 

_**A library,** _Castiel thinks. 

The cold whooshes through them, a strong, powerful force in this room. The presence hangs heavy in the air, an ominous invitation, and Castiel feels his magic respond, lifting from beneath his skin to answer the call.

“Dude, what is that?” Dean mutters. Castiel feels him shift uneasily, moving his weight from one foot to the other.

“Stay here,” he commands. Whether Dean carries the blood of a Night-Hunter or not is irrelevant. He is an untrained civilian, and right now, an impediment to what Castiel needs. 

“Yeah, not happening,” he snorts back. He steps forward, only to have Castiel hold back with his arm and glare at him. 

“Stay here,” Castiel growls. Dean steps back, startled, and Castiel takes that moment to trace the sigil for _protection_ into the air before him. He offers the sigil the meaning he wants - to keep Dean here, inside whatever form of protection it makes - and the sigil obeys. 

Dean steps forward again, this time to hit the invisible barrier that keeps him in place. His face morphs into an expression of reddened anger, and he bangs his fists against the barrier. “What the-let me the fuck out, you bastard,” he snaps. 

“That will protect you,” Castiel says. Ignoring the way Dean continues to snarl and curse, Castiel instead brings a hand up to his loquitur and thinks, _Charlie._

_I’m here._

**_I’m going off contact for a while._ **

_Cas?_

He allows the sense of the presence to pass across the link. ** _The loquitur's magic will interfere._**

 _I know,_ she sighs _. I’ve said it repeatedly tonight, but be careful. I’m going to put Samandriel on alert._

Castiel nods. There isn’t any use arguing with her, and besides, having some backup might not be such a bad idea. ** _I will see you in a bit._**

_Stay safe, Cas._

He removes the pendant and places it on the ground next to Dean. “Keep an eye on this please,” he says. Dean stares at him, confused and startled, even as Castiel gets to his feet. He unbuttons his shirt, one-by-one, and watches as Dean’s eyes follow his fingers down his chest. 

“Dude what the fuck-” Dean yelps and steps back. He averts his eyes in shame, and Castiel ignores the silent thrill that runs through his spine at the sight. 

He drops the shirt next to the pendant and steps away, walking down the length of the hall. When he gets to the middle, the cold is so strong that his nipples harden. Goosebumps erupt on his skin, each hair standing up in silent salute, and Castiel drops to his knees. 

_**I feel you,** _ he thinks. **_I am here._**

He allows the power to bubble up under his skin. The sigils inked into his skin begin to glow, his magic lighting him up from the inside. He holds out his hand and summons his blade. It slides out from the Other dimension and into his palm, the sharp edge of it pointing at the floor. 

He traces out a series of sigils - _protection, communication, and truth_. The last one is tricky; after all there are many different truths, not one, but he thinks the version he has picked should help. 

When he is done, he sets his sword by his side, and looks up.

He is not startled to see the dark silhouette hanging in the air in front of him. The face though… As much as Castiel suspected who it was, it is still a surprise to see Arthur Ketch’s spirit in front of him, a mutilated, bloody, angry thing that he must now set to rest. 

Before he can, however, he needs to know. 

“The Book of Life,” he states clearly. “Where is it?” 

Arthur Ketch stares at him, uncomprehending. The air around him goes colder, heavier, and Castiel has to take a second to breathe. 

“I know you stole it,” he murmurs. “I followed the Book's signature to you."

Ketch tilts his head. The cut through his neck is an almost perfect, neat slice, if not for the tiny sliver of skin that holds his head to his neck still. Well, ghost-skin. If Castiel were anyone else, he might have been scared off. 

Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Dean Winchester's mouth drop open and then close. He makes no sound, however, simply dropping his hand to his gun. 

Interesting. 

"Murdered," Castiel says. "I see."

Ketch pulls back, and sets his head on his neck again. He stares at Castiel, face grim, mouth set, with a single line of blood dripping down the corner of his lips and into his chin. 

"Do not force me, Mr. Ketch." Castiel's voice remains mild, but he allows the magic to glow under his skin. His tattoos glow hotter, and the ache feels good. "I asked you a question." 

The answering smile is crooked and bloody. 

"If I must…" Castiel bends down and places both palms on the ground. He closes his eyes and traces the sigil for _obey_. He does not like using this sigil - it falls too close to necromancy for his tastes - but he is running short on time. 

He has to find the Book. 

Arthur Ketch's ghost bends backwards, lower and lower, until his head is right next to his feet. It is a strange, gory sight, and it makes the hair on Castiel's skin rise up in tension. 

**That wasn't very nice.**

"I warned you," Castiel replies. "Where is the Book?" 

**And why, would I have The Book?**

"Are you telling me that you do not?" Castiel tilts his head and raises an eyebrow. 

**Would you believe me if I was?**

That makes him pause. "If it was the truth," he says quietly. 

**The truth. Indeed… a privilege, that only Bunker-Heads may partake of. **The crooked smile widens. **Do you know, Night-Hunter, why I was killed?**

"For the Book?" Fuck. This was not good. 

**For the Book,** the spirit confirms. **I was tasked with protecting it. I did. And this was my payment.**

"Who?" Castiel demands. "Who would-" 

**An old friend. An old foe. To settle an ancient row.**

"What does that mean?" 

**Shattered oaths between brothers two, who suffers but me and you?**

The apparition began to crackle and fade, and Castiel's head throbs. "No," he growls. "Come back, I am not finished-" 

**Remember, Bunker-Head, that what is lost is not found, and what is found is not to be lost.**

The tattoos glow again, and the magic bursts out, now beyond Castiel's control. The light is blinding and he instinctively closes his eyes. When he opens them, the spirit is long gone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

_**D E A N** _

When Dean comes to, he is lying in the middle of the road. It is deserted, and quiet, and he groans, pushing himself to his feet. His hands scrape against the gravel, causing pinpricks of pain to run up his arms, and he lets out a low, short grunt that disappears into the wind. 

He squints against the sky. It is still dark, though the moon is lower on the horizon than before. 

Out for a solid couple of hours then. 

Out from… what? How did he get here? What the hell _happened_? He was supposed to wait outside the Ketch Mansion for Mrs. Moseley to let him in, so he could go dig around the library to find the fucking Book of Life. 

The last thing he remembers is… Son of a _bitch._

Ketch is dead. 

Ketch is _dead_. 

This whole thing… this was supposed to be a fucking farce. A way to keep Nicholas Vaught occupied until the deadline he’d given Dean would run out, and he’d still get the money to send Dad to the Town Hall rehabilitation for alcoholism, because that was the goddamned deal. 

There were no such things as ghosts or magic or a Book of Life. Dean knows, okay? He wasn’t the Army’s goddamned Mystery Raider for nothin’; he knows history, he knows artifacts, and he knows that the Book of Life is an ancient myth that is about as real as werewolves or vampires. 

And yet. 

“The Book of Life,” the man had said. Dean can’t even remember his name. 

Shit, shit, shit. 

Okay, _no_. He’s a goddamned soldier. He cannot have a panic-induced meltdown in the middle of the road, no matter how much everything about his world is changing. There’s gotta be some kind of science behind the stuff that pretty guy had pulled, he just needs to figure it out. 

He ignores the “pretty” part of that thought; that man was gorgeous, and Dean already knows he’s goin’ to hell on account of his attraction to men. Just ask the Sergeant who came across him sucking a man’s cock. Or better yet, ask Gordon whom he’d “seduced” into letting his cock be sucked. 

The sound of Impala’s neigh cuts through his thoughts. He turns to see her just a few yards away, grazing on the grass that covers the sides of the muddy road. Relief pounds through his veins; thank fuck, Baby is alright. Whatever that man was, at least he wasn’t a killer. 

Dean doesn’t _think_ he was a killer, at least. 

“Hey girl,” he whispers. Walking over to her, he pats her flank and then kisses her nose. She neighs at him again, bumping into his shoulder, and he chuckles, petting her as gratefully as he can. “Yeah, let’s get outta here.” Quickly swinging himself up her side, he begins his trek back to his house. It isn’t cold exactly, but there is a mild chill in the air, so he bends over the saddle, curls his hands around the reigns and pulls them close to his body. 

The small path he was on curves out on to a larger road, and it takes him a second to recognize where he is. Without any of the stores open, the whole place looks like the inside of a horror painting that he’d studied in the few years of college classes he could take, buildings all crammed together haphazardly wherever space was to be found. 

Like Ketch’s ghost was hiding behind any one of those dark corners, as though it could pop out from behind a turn at any second to hang in front of Dean with a nearly severed neck. 

Fuck. 

Not now. Not yet.

Gritting his teeth, he urges Impala forward. She _clop-clops_ her way back to the house, at a speed that isn’t quite a run and isn’t quite a daily-trot either. 

The posh areas of the town grow steadily shabbier. The buildings go from big to small, from luxurious gardens to little doors packed in together like sardines. The walls look dirtier, and in the dim light, everything looks like it’s been covered with a layer of dust. 

He turns the last corner, and the house comes into view. 

Dean’s not a coward. Okay? He’s just not. He was a soldier in the War, he ran head-first into enemy lines, because that was what _needed_ to be done, and he has never been the one to shy away from doing what was needed. He’s sinned - repeatedly - and slept with both men and women, and he doesn’t give a flying rat’s ass about the dishonorable discharge he’s racked up, even if it makes it difficult to get a fucking job. He’s not a coward. 

And yet… the sight of his house makes something in his body go weak. His hands start shaking against the reigns, and he curls his body further into Impala, as though he could melt completely into her. 

Impala, the best girl that she is, leads him straight to the tiny-ass enclosure he’s built himself, that serves as her stables. Once, this was a full barn, with hay and oats, and all the stable-hands they needed to keep a full set of horses for the whole household. Now, it is a sad mockery of a single stall that Impala stops in front of, neighing lightly and bumping her face at Dean. 

He sighs, and dismounts, running a hand against her flank in silent thanks. He makes quick work of the saddle and the gear, dumping them in the shelf nearby before herding Impala back into her stall. She nuzzles his shoulder, and he kisses her again, lingering for a long moment in her comforting scent. 

Squaring his shoulders, he heads back inside the house. His hands are still shaking, so he shoves them inside his pockets, and whistles a light tune to help ward off the oppressive silence that stifles the air. 

The house is silent when Dean opens the door. Not surprising when it’s pre-dawn hours out. Still, the back of his neck prickles. 

"Dad?" he calls. "Sam!" 

No answer. Asleep, probably. Sam will be pissy if he wakes the kid up now. 

Rubbing his eyes with his hands, Dean toes off his boots and heads inside. All he wants is to throw his clothes off, drown a glass of whiskey or two - maybe the whole bottle - and then crash into bed. 

The smell of something rank and acidic hits his nostrils the second he enters. Jesus, what the hell is that? He sniffs - it smells like… vomit? 

"Mghh." 

The large mound he’d originally thought was a blanket-pile on the couch groans and then rolls over to thud to the ground. A glass bottle slips from the shadowy silhouette’s hand, and across the floor to come to land at Dean’s feet. He stares at it, uncomprehending, because _what?_

Dad can't be _that_ stupid, not again - 

He is. 

He absolutely goddamned is, because he's now laid up on the ground, covered in a pool of his own vomit. The room smells rank, and nearby, two empty glass bottles are lying, one of them broken, and that must have been the sound Dean heard. 

"DAD!" 

He can't remember how he got there, or when he picked Dad up, but the next thing Dean knows, he's in Dad's bedroom, laying him down gently on the bed. He uses a washcloth to wipe down Dad's face and chest, and changes his shirt before allowing him to rest a little. 

It sure would be nice to wave a hand and have this mess cleaned up, he thinks, more than a little bitter. Straightening up, he goes back to the living room, and just stares at the pile of clothes and the pool of vomit before him. 

For a long moment, he has to just focus on breathing. His chest hurts. His hands are shaking worse now. And every breath fills his lungs with the putrid odor of Dad’s alcohol induced shit. 

Hey, look at that. He’s usin’ metaphors and shit now. 

With a deep breath, he goes to the closet to grab the cleaning gear. He walks back to the living room, and drops the broom and the washing cloth next to the couch. Moving over to the telephone, he pauses for a second, and then shrugs - screw it, it’s late night, but Bobby can deal. It won’t be the first time.

He picks up the handset and then circles around to the first digit. He focuses on the feeling of the phone - the way the metal feels cold against his fingers, the round and repetitive motions of dialing the numbers as he turns the dial again and again, and the long _triiiiing_ of the dial-tone in his ears as he waits for the call to go through. 

“Yeah?” 

Dean’s heart balloons. “Bobby,” he rasps. He can’t say anything more - his damn heart has now blown up to his mouth, and his hands are barely holdin' the phone properly. 

_Keep it together,_ he grits his teeth. This damn telephone cost a fucking fortune, he ain’t lettin' it fall to the floor. 

“Dean?” 

“Bobby, I need you.” 

A long pause. The silence hangs between them, a question both asked and answered, because Bobby knows exactly why Dean would be calling this late at night. 

“I’ll be there in a bit, boy,” Bobby sighs. The click of a dial-tone indicates the end of the call, and Dean places the phone back on the receiver. 

He shrinks to the fall on his knees, curling in on himself. For long moments, he shakes, blinking away tears. 

_Hang on, Dean._

A stranger… the man is a fucking stranger, but Dean still feels the warmth of his touch. He hears the rough, whiskey-soaked voice in his ears. 

Pathetic. He’s so goddamned _pathetic_. 

With a groan, he pushes himself back up and grabs the broom and the washcloth. It’s fine. This is fine. This is his life. He’s not gonna turn his back on Dad, not when Dad needs him this much. 

He’ll just… he’ll go back to the Vaught mansion, he’ll fucking tell Vaught about what happened. He’ll demand some answers, and he isn’t gonna move his ass until Vaught tells him what the hell he’s dealin’ with, because if Dean is gonna be involved in hocus-pocus shit, he’s gotta be prepared. 

He’ll do whatever needs to be done. As always.

*-*-*

Dawn breaks, pale and pink, across the skies. 

By the time Bobby arrives with Ellen, he's managed to get the house clean. Sam hasn't woken up - thank fuck for small favors - and Dean collapses on the newly washed floor, exhausted. 

"What'd your Daddy do now?" Bobby's brow furrows as he sees Dean's expression. "You okay, son?" 

Dean waves a hand. "He's in there," he says to Ellen. He can't muster up the energy to say anything more, but he doesn't need to. It's _Ellen_. 

She quietly drops a kiss on his hair, and then marches into the bedroom. She looks like she's going to flay John Winchester alive once she's nursed him back to health, and honestly, Dean does not have it in him to care right now. 

"You look like you seen better days," Bobby comments. He comes to sit on the rickety piece of shit Dean calls a couch. “What’s wrong, son?”

What’s wrong. What’s _wrong_. 

The same question every teacher of his had asked during school. He’d clawed his way up to the top, getting into college. He didn’t have the best marks, oh no - that was Sam’s shit, not his. But he’d fought, and he’d gotten it, and then, he’d given it up. Because there were bills and a deadbeat Dad and Dean was just so _tired_.

And then he’d left for the Army. It had felt like a refuge, with his small contingent of brothers, who cared. Benny, with gruff demeanor and his spicy food. Garth, all excitable and warm, but a sharp shooter whose skills put Dad’s to shame. And Gordon. Gordon, who was gorgeous and a friend, right up until the point he got Dean kicked out. 

Jesus may have said _love your neighbor_ , but get your face fucked a couple times, and you’re no longer worth that love. 

If Dean could make a list of all the things that were wrong, it would be a mile long, and still keep going. With a sigh, he shakes his head and leans back against the couch. He wants to go and grab a drink himself, but the smell of vomit is still rank and he swallows hard against it. 

“I’m fine.” 

“Dean-” Bobby begins. 

Before he can continue, the sound of loud footsteps echo down the hall. “Morning,” Sam calls out, and a moment later, he’s bounding into the living room. His hair is askew, and he’s still in his ratty-old pajamas. Dean watches as he rubs his eyes a little, still looking like a little boy. His heart twists; shit, this is why he needs to do this stuff. He’s gotta make sure Sam doesn’t end up like him. 

“Bobby.” Sam’s smile fades. “You’re here early.” He sniffs the air a little - the smell still lingers, no matter how much soap Dean uses - and his brows furrow. 

“Hello, Sam,” Bobby says. He clears his throat awkwardly and then says, “Good morning.” 

Dean hides a snort. Keeping an ear on the conversation, he moves to the kitchen to throw together some toast and eggs. He’s not avoiding his brother. He’s not. He just wants to make sure he’s well-fed, that’s all. 

“Mornin’,” Sam answers. He looks between Bobby and Dean and then sighs. “What’d he do this time?”

It’s the exact same thing that Bobby said when he entered the house. Dean smashes the egg he’s holding with great force, watching it crumble beneath his fist. It isn’t as satisfying as he’d like. Sticky wet clings to his hands, and the eggshell pokes at the soft webbing between his fingers. 

“Got drunk,” Bobby supplies. “Threw up and then passed out. Ellen’s in there with him now.”

As if on cue, Ellen comes out, her face grim. “Sam,” she says. Patting his cheek in greeting, she turns to Dean. “Dean…”

“What is it?”

She looks at him steadily, not saying anything. Dean is the first to break away, unable to meet her eyes - he knows what she’s going to say, and he can’t hear it. 

Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Sam’s expression fall. He sets his bag down and walks towards Dean, face intent and worried, and Dean turns his back. He can’t take this. Not today. Not right now. 

“Dean,” he begins. “Dean, he-”

“Go take a seat, Sammy,” Dean cuts him off. “I’ll have the food done in a few minutes.” 

“Dean, it’s not your fau-”

“The library would be good today, huh?” he turns the tap, and lets the sound of running water fill the silence. “You could go flirt with Sarah, again, I’m sure she won’t kick your ass out this time.” It’s a weak tease and Sam knows it. He and Sarah broke up months ago. 

“Dean-” 

“I’m gonna make toast and scrambled eggs, ‘kay, Sammy?” Dean moves back to the bowl and picks up another egg. “Sorry, we’re outta bacon. If you’d stop growing into the big lug you’re turning out to be-” 

“Dean, stop!” Sam exclaims. “You don’t have to-”

“Do what, Sam?” Dean says. “Worry? Take care of you guys?” 

“Dean-”

He can’t do this, not right now. Dad is… Dad is sick. Dad is _sick_ , and he needs that new rehabilitation thing that Ellen’s been pushing for a while now. Even with the money Vaught is sending… Town Hall hospital ain’t cheap. 

Dean is so, so tired. 

He smashes the final potato and throws it into the stew boiling on the stove. He washes his hands and without bothering to wipe them, stuffs them inside his pocket and stalks out of the kitchen. 

“Food’s almost ready,” he tells Ellen. “Just let it simmer and then it should be ready to eat.”

He grabs his jacket and then slinks out the door, refusing to look back. 

*-*-*

Dean spends the whole day wandering around the city, trying to avoid anyone he knows. Not too hard, it’s not like he has any friends. Still, he let his feet go where they wanted. Shouldn’t really come as a surprise that he ended up back there - Ketch mansion. Empty now, with not even the servants milling around. Not as ominous in the day. No strange ghosts or apparitions to pull their heads off. And no men with startlingly blue eyes to glare at him for making noise. 

Did that shit even happen? 

He pauses for a second there. Considers, seriously even, sneaking under the police tape, and into the library, just to make sure his brain hasn’t conjured the whole thing up. 

Then, with an angry pinch to his own arm, he turns around, and walks away. 

He ain’t gettin’ any answers there. He needs to talk to Vaught, that’s what he’s gotta do.

It takes him a while to walk to the Vaught mansion. The light chill of night drops around him, a blanket of the dark, and he shoves his hands inside the thin denim jacket he yanked on before storming out. This place is creepier at night. The pathways that bend and turn their way towards the entrance are covered with hedges on both sides. During the day, they decorate the way. At night, they stand like silent sentinels, ready to capture the souls of any who would dare to trespass. 

He shivers as he grabs the big knocker and raps once, twice, and then a third time. 

There is no answer. 

He steps back to take a look - light shines from inside, but it’s less than what he would expect from a place like this. There is none of the hustle and bustle of activity that he’s used to from the servants. The quiet is eerie, the air hanging with a sense of anticipation so think, Dean can almost taste it. 

Shaking his head, he steps back. _Stupid,_ he thinks. There’s nothing here.

He knocks again. Tap-tap, tap-tap- 

Nothing. 

Is no one in there? They asleep or something? 

A third tap-tap. Silence answers him.

With a sigh, Dean massages the bridge of his nose. He turns on his heels and moves back - fuck this. He’ll come back tomorrow. During the day, when Vaught is awake and inside the damn mansion. 

Dean’s just backing up towards the hedge-lined pathway, when a terrified scream cuts through the night air. 

_“No, Lucifer!”_

A flock of ravens lift and fly off into the air. Instinct drives him to run back towards the mansion, as another scream, louder this time, echoes again. 

He races towards the door, grabs the knocker and bangs it, heedless of the noise or the hindrance he could be causing. 

Silence. 

A minute passes. And then another. 

Just as Dean is about to bang the knocker again, for the third time, the door creaks open, swinging back slowly to reveal a silhouetted shape. 

“Yes?” 

The man’s face is in shadows. There’s barely enough light to see the outline of his body, and something in Dean shivers, a primal fear making all the hairs on his skin stand up at attention. 

“Uh… hi, I-uh-” Dean fumbles. What the hell did he say now? _Hey, I heard someone scream the name of the Devil and it seemed to be coming from inside this mansion?_

That would go over real well with one of the few people still willing to employ him. 

“Alistair!” Nicholas Vaught’s voice, at least, is familiar. 

Shadow-Man moves aside, still watching Dean with a hawk-eyed gaze that even the darkness somehow isn’t covering. Dean hides a shiver, even as Vaught calls again. 

“Alistair, who is it?!” 

“Mr. Winchester.” Shadow-Man doesn’t raise his voice. It still somehow manages to echo in the silent air. 

A warning? An answer? Dean can’t tell. 

“Ah, let him in!” 

Shadow-Man smiles. A flash of white-yellow makes his entire face seem predatory. Dean instinctively places his hand on his hip - the missing, familiar weight of his gun throws him further off balance and he stumbles a little as he follows him into the mansion. 

It’s not like he hasn’t ever been inside. Shadow-Man - Alistair - leads him into the same parlor he was at barely a few hours ago. The dim lighting, coupled with the sounds of harsh breathing and low rasping from his companion still makes it seem much eerier than it had been. 

“Here he is, sir,” Alistair bows long and deep. 

Dean stares as he straightens, finally able to see him fully. Objectively, there is nothing strange about him. Dressed in khakis and a button-up, with a small bow-tie on his neck, jacket missing, he looks the role of the butler he’s supposed to be. His hair is well-trimmed, and his shoes are polished to a shine that sparkles even this late at night. 

And yet. 

The smile is too fake, too perfect. Those eyes are that of a predator, observing and calculating until everything is right for him to pounce. 

Dean’s been a soldier for too many years to ignore the slight tingling at the back of his mind. He makes sure to keep Alistair in the line of his sight as he steps into the room.

Nicholas Vaught is seated at one of the tables, a candle burning in front of him as he waves - too cheerfully - at Dean. “Dean!” he exclaims. “What a surprise!” 

“Mr. Vaught,” Dean greets uneasily. “I uh-I’m sorry to call-in so late.” 

Vaught waves a hand, indicating that he take a seat. He’s a handsome man, similar in stature to Dean, if a little broader. His sandy-colored hair is slicked back, and he’s still wearing his waistcoat. The top buttons of his shirt are popped open, and he’s smiling. 

It’s a weird sight. Dean has met him only a few times before this - the job has, so far, been processed through Meg, who gave him the files and then told him that she would collect the prize at the end of it, when she would also deposit the money into his account. Dean did not ask questions, because things are just better that way. 

Apparently, he should’ve asked those questions. 

Because, in Nicholas Vaught’s hand, is a knife. And it’s covered in blood.

“What the hell is that?” Dean demands. His hand is on his belt, and he flexes his fingers, wishing he had his gun. “Why-why do you have that?”

Vaught looks confused for a moment. He looks down to where Dean is pointing, and then laughs. “Oh this!” he chortles. “My apologies, I was in the middle of making dinner. I was cutting through a steak and I forgot I had it.” 

Uh-huh.

A _steak._

Does he think Dean is some kind of idiot? 

“I… see.” 

“How can I help you, Dean?” Vaught sets the knife down on the table and then crosses his legs, looking at Dean expectantly. The distant part of Dean that’s been taking care of his house his whole life winces at that - the blood will stain the wood, he thinks, itching to remove it and run it under a tap. 

“I uh…” he fumbles. “I was hoping… um, I was just in the neighborhood?” 

Jesus Christ, is he _pathetic_. 

Vaught just looks amused. “I see,” he says, not unkindly. He pauses, and then says, “How is the case progressing?” 

Again, the words seem to be stuck in his throat. How the fuck does he tell his employer - only the last person in the city willing to still take in a sinner like him - that he saw what was… magic? 

Did he even see it right? He was dizzy last night. Tired, from a long day of trying to haggle with Dad to get him to agree to go to rehabilitation. And though he can’t even admit it out loud, completely distracted by the man in front of him.

Dean’s not ashamed of his needs, but he ain’t that bold. 

“Dean?” 

He swallows. “I-uh-it’s going…” 

“Well, I hope?” Vaught picks up the knife again. “Alistair, if you will?” 

Shadow-Man comes back. He holds his hand out, and for a second, he thinks Vaught is gonna hand the knife over to him. Then, he sees the cloth that Vaught picks up from his hand, and run over the blade. 

Red seeps into the white of the cloth. 

“I saw something,” Dean blurts out. 

Vaught’s hand pauses against the blade for barely a second. “Oh?” 

“Something… weird,” Dean says. “Something… I didn’t expect.” 

Vaught doesn’t say anything for a long time. He simply cleans the damned knife, and then sets it down. It’s cleaner now, but dried flecks of blood still coat the handle. 

Dean’s seen - and used - many a weapon in his life. There’s still something menacing about the edge that he can’t quite put his finger on. 

“Tell me, Dean,” Vaught finally says. “What did you see? A ghost?” 

The utter certainty in his voice is what makes Dean’s spine stiffen. He rolls his hands into fists inside his pockets, and when he speaks, his voice is harsh, “Ghost?” 

Vaught raises an eyebrow. “Ghost,” he nods. “A spirit? A… presence, if you will.” 

“What the hell do you know-”

And that, of course, is when the world explodes around them.  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

_**D E A N** _

One heartbeat. The world shatters. 

A second heartbeat. No, that’s not the world - it’s just glass. 

A third heartbeat. The ringing in his ears finally fades, only to be replaced with the sounds of yelling and screaming. 

Dean ducks. Something flies over his head. 

A fifth and sixth heartbeat. Something bright at the edge of his eyes. Shadow-Man - Alistair - waves his hand, and the person behind him explodes in a fiery shower of flesh and blood. Squishy wet redness squelches down his arms, and Dean stares at it, not understanding. 

“Dean!” 

The flash of blue eyes. _Lub-dub._ A newly familiar face, leaning into him. _Lub-dub._ The strong grip of an arm grabbing his own. _Lub-dub._

"We need to get out of here!" 

_Lub-dub._

Hot pain searing through his legs, as the man pushes him outside the house.

_Lub-dub._

And then… 

_Lub-dub._

Nothing. 

*-*-*

It’s dark. 

_“...you brought him?”_

Muffled voices. 

Everything hurts. 

If he can _just_ go back to sleep.

No. Not yet. There was something… something. He had to do? What was he doing?

_“...something about him…”_

Floppy brown hair. Wide, concerned eyes. A tall frame, towering over him. He needed to… to protect that person. He needed… 

_“...civilian!”_

Sam. He had to get to Sam. The world shattered, right in front of his eyes. He had to get to Sam, make sure he was safe. That was his job. 

_“...Mary’s son.”_

Ma? Ma! 

It hurts. 

His head hurts. Ma. Sam. Dad? Dad too. Dad needed… Dad has to go - somewhere. He has to send him there. So they can be a family again.

God, it hurts. 

_“Dormio.”_

He knows that word. _Sleep_. Yeah. 

Wait, no. Shit, he has to get to his family. Dad needs him - _Sam_ needs him. 

_“It’s alright. They are alright. Sleep now. Dormi!”_

Dad and Sam are… alright. If he sleeps, just for a little while… yeah. Yeah, that sounds like a good idea. He’ll just sleep. 

_“Everything will be alright when you awake.”_

Everything will be better when he wakes up. 

Dean sleeps. 

_**C A S T I E L** _

Castiel straightens. He watches Dean, chest rising in slow up-down movements as the sleep spell takes effect. The guilt is a leaden weight in his stomach, and he inhales, long and slow, the way Mary had once taught him how to do. 

_Mary_. Mary Campbell. His tutor, his first friend even if she had been more than sixteen-years older than him. He as good as lost her when she defected from the Night-Hunters when he was barely six-years-old. 

And Dean Winchester was her son. _Is_ her son. 

Now that he knows, he can see the similarities. The nose. The curve of their chins, and the same light hair that darkens under the sun. The eyes. 

Lord, Castiel is stupid. He _saw_ those eyes, that night, he should have _known_. 

He has gone his whole life trying to not to find Mary. What was the point? She _left_. As much as Castiel loves her, she was gone, and he only has the spectre of her in his memory, something he clings to only when he is completely alone. 

With a tight swallow, he moves away, turning his back to the bed. Above him, the fairy-lights blinked, even as a warm Fae mind touched his own. 

_Why do you feel guilt, Castiel?_

“I…” he exhales. “I should have…” 

_Mary’s death was not your fault._

“I know that. I just…” _I miss her._ “I promised myself that when I saw her, I would apologize.” 

_And now you fear you may never get the chance?_

“I know I won’t,” he says, quietly. “Mary’s gone.” 

_But her son is alive. You saved his life._

The pointed silence following that statement feels like someone is churning hot liquid metal in his stomach. 

_Castiel…_

He smiles, a little shakily, at her sigh. “I’m sorry, Kelly,” he whispers. “But…” he turns one last, lingering glance at Dean. Mary’s son. Pursing his lips, he turns away, and murmurs, “I have to protect him.” 

_I see._

He looks up, turning wet eyes to where the fairy-lights are lining the ceiling. “You will keep an eye on him?” 

_Of course._

“I’ll send Charlie and some Hunters to bring home when he is Healed.” 

_I will watch over him until then. Rest easy, I will not let any harm come to him._

“Thank you.” 

The lights dim and then turn bright, bathing the dingy room in a mix of pastel pinks and purples, before the presence in his mind retreats completely. 

Without another word, Castiel stalks out, shutting the door behind him gently. 

**_D E A N_ **

“Dean? Dean!” 

Son of a bitch. Everything fucking hurts. 

“Dean?!” 

“Shuf ufp, Fampf,” Dean mumbles. Jesus Christ, he wants the yelling to stop. He wants to sleep, dammit. Everything was going to be okay when he woke up, and it ain’t time to wake up yet.

“Dean!” 

Icy cold water splashes on to his face. Dean flies up on the bed, with an undignified sound that he will never admit to making. His head pounds, and his insides are soaked, and he shivers, because, what the hell-?

_Sam! He’s safe!_

Sam stares down at him, brows pinched into a frown. His shaggy hair is falling right on to his face, and for a second, Dean stares. There is a low, swooping sensation in his gut that takes him a moment to identify - he’s… _relieved?_

Yes, he loves his little brother, yada yada, but why the hell is he _relieved_ to see him now? He saw him just…

Wait, when did he see him last?

“Sam?” 

“Dean!” 

Sam leans in, and suddenly, Dean is wrapped in an embrace of gangly limbs. He gets a mouthful of brown hair, and he coughs, pushing Sam away to glare at him.

“Hug me after you cut your hair, Samantha,” he snarks. 

Sam doesn’t scoff at him like usual. He smiles. He fucking _smiles_. A shaky smile, like the one he gives when Dad’s being an ass and embarrassing them in public. 

It takes Dean a second to recognize fear in his eyes. _Fear._

Christ, what _happened_? 

“You’re okay,” Sam says. “God, Dean, don’t ever scare me like that again.” 

“Of course I’m okay, what do you-” Dean trails off, finally taking in his surroundings. He’s… home? In his living room, in the same couch Dad collapsed on - wait, was that last night? Why did it feel like this was not where he was supposed to be? “Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

Sam stares at him. “Because you’ve been missing for almost a week,” he says flatly. “I found you passed out on the porch this morning.”

“What?” Dean yells. Cuz, really, _what?_ “This ain’t funny, Sammy!” 

“I’m not joking,” Sam snaps. “You vanished Monday morning, after Bobby and Ellen arrived, and you never came home. It’s Saturday. We’ve been searching for you the whole week.”

Dean rubs his face with his hand. “Fuck,” he grunts. _“Fuck.”_

Sam smiles wanly. “Yeah.” He clears his throat, and leans in. “Where the hell have you been?” 

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“Exactly what that sounds like, Sam!” Dean snaps. “I don’t frickin’ _know!”_

“Dean-”

“I can’t remember anything.” 

Sam’s eyes go wide at that. “Shit.” 

Dean throws the blanket off of his legs, and gets up. Instantly, he wobbles, nearly crashing back on to the couch. Sam rushes in to hold him up, and Dean clutches his brother’s arm with shaky hands. 

“Woah, woah, Dean, you’re-”

“I’m fine,” he cuts in. “Just, what the hell happened?” 

Sam pushes him back onto the couch gently. “You really don’t remember?” 

“I’d tell you if I did, Sam,” Dean says. “Last thing I remember is Dad bein’ drunk off his ass.” 

“You remember where you went after that?” 

“I…” Dean closes his eyes. “I left, and I was… walking around the city, for a bit, and then…” 

“And then?” 

“I can’t fucking-” 

Glass shattering. The world ending. _Blue_ eyes. 

Sharp, throbbing pain erupts at the edge of his temples, and everything vanishes. Dean gasps, falling back into the couch, and shaking like a baby bird. His curls in on himself - it hurts, it hurts, it _hurts -_

“Dean? Dean!” 

Dean reaches out blindly, grasping at air. Sam grabs his hand, and clasps it, holding it tightly, as he watches Dean with an anxious expression on his face.

“Dean?”

When the fit of pain finally passes, Dean loosens his grip and sinks into the couch. The flaming ache has gone, but there’s a dull tense pounding it left behind. His entire body feels sore, like it used to be when he was in the Army and ran a bunch of drills in a day. His mind goes blank, and he shakes his head - there’s _somethin’_ there, but he ain’t willin’ to push it. 

Not yet. 

Sam sighs. He falls on the floor next to Dean, and leans against the couch. “What the hell is going on?” 

Dean’s shrug is muted by the couch’s torn-up fabric. “I got no idea,” he mumbles. “I got no idea.”

*-*-*

_The world shatters._

_Pin-pricks of glass tear into his skin. He can feel his flesh give, the pain somehow both muted and visceral as is the way of dreams. The hot wet redness of blood coats everything he touches._

_He moves through the glass, in a dream-haze. There are screams and shouts in the distance, even as hot-hot heat fills the room. His tongue darts out to lick his dry lips - he tastes the soot-ash smoke that hangs heavy in the air._

_He needs… Sam. He needs to find his brother._

_A dark silhouette in front of him raises a knife. He can’t see the man’s face clearly; he’s covered in shadows that seem to be sucking all the light into themselves. The knife, though, is stained with blood - the only unholy spot of color, against a canvas of never-ending nothingness._

_He turns to run._

_Shadow-Man catches him, snapping a finger. Something close to them explodes. Soft, squishy flesh spatters across them, and the red color becomes so vivid, he wants to close his eyes to drown it out. A sob sits at the end of his tongue, a primal fear for his life given form._

**_Let me go,_ ** _he wants to beg._ **_Please. Please._ **

_Nothing comes out. His tongue seems to be stuck in his throat, coated evenly with the rustic taste of blood and greasy-dry taste of soot._

_He wants to call for his brother. He wants to call for his Ma. He wants to cry._

_He wants to_ live _._

_On cue, a white, translucent form appears, right in front of them. The face of the form is shadowed, but not invisible like the Shadow-Man’s. It looks vaguely familiar but he can’t place it. All he knows is that it further quickens the anxiety he already feels - he wants to run, to run, to run-_

_Shadow-Man hisses._

_The white form simply inclines its head. One side of its neck comes right off, sliced through neatly, and he can see the blood, browner on the white form, crusted through and dried, but still forming a neat ring around the edge of the cut. It looks like the ghost of a dean man. No, not a dead man, a murdered man._

_A bony, skeletal hand raises itself, and offers it to Shadow-Man. Shadow-Man pauses, considering, and then drops the knife into it._

_He recognizes what’s gonna happen an instant before it does. Shadow-Man pulls him tight against his body and holds him up - cold, bloody hands close in around his waist. It hurts, and he screams, thrashing, trying to escape, because he doesn’t wanna fucking die like this, he can’t, not now -_

_\- the knife slices down the air -_

_\- blue eyes, flashing, a bright light -_

\- and Dean shoots up in bed, the scream curling the edge of his tongue. He swallows it down, panting, clutching at the edge of his sheets. The house is drafty, cold, and he can feel the goose-flesh breaking out on his skin, as the sweat begins to cool. 

He’s at home. He’s safe. 

His head throbs. Something at the back of his mind pricks - he chases it, trying to understand, to figure it out. He was in the goddamned Army, this was his job. People hire him for this, to find things, to figure out ancient mysteries, because even if he was just a small-town boy, he was _good_ at it. 

It was why Vaught hired him to find - 

The pain that erupts in Dean’s head is scalding. It feels like something is liquefying on the inside, a kind of burn-and-slide that sloshes around like water in a jar that’s boiling. 

Blindly, he reaches out, searching for something, anything, to stop the pain. He finds his pillow, and brings it to his face, collapsing against it on the bed. He breathes in deep - the smell of soap and water, mixed with old beer stains that they've never been able to completely get out. It reminds him of home. The bed is sleep-warm beneath him and he pulls the single sheet around himself. 

The pain is everywhere. His head feels so heavy. Like he just needs to shake it a little, and everything inside will tip over and he’ll be empty. 

Dean wants to be empty. 

_I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition._

He clenches his eyes shut. The voice is soothing. A little soft, a little gravely, like the guy had downed an entire bottle of whiskey and emptied out a pack of cigarettes. He pulls the blanket closer, and sees, out of the corner of his eyes, that it’s a soft blue color, like the sky on a sunny frickin’ day. 

Blue eyes. 

A rough arm grabbing his own, and then wrapping around him. A feeling of safety he hasn’t felt in… forever, really. 

_Everything will be alright when you awake._

His eyes fly open. Jesus fuck. He breathes out slow, waiting for the pain to resurface. His heart pounds in his chest so loud, he thinks he can feel its echo in the silence of the room. His body feels like it’s been made into a statue, sculpted first from pain and nothingness, only to become something stiff and cold. 

The pain doesn’t come. 

Gradually, he loosens. Letting the sheet slide to his waist, he sits up, still holding the pillow. He’s achy, sore, like he used to be back on the farm, in the village before they moved here. But it’s not the scalding fire from before, so he breathes out, light and slow, before he throws the blanket off completely and gets to his feet. 

He’s figuring this shit out now. 

*-*-*

Dean very carefully does not think about where he is going. 

It feels familiar. Like this is something’ he’s done before - striding out of his house in a damned huff, and then heading down these exact roads. 

A sudden pulse of warning. His head spins.

Dean breathes and pushes that thought away. Instead, he focuses on the road beside him and what he can feel with his senses. It’s one of those tricks that Benny taught him in the Army - when nothin’ feels real, and everythin’ hurts, focusing on just what his body is feelin’ helps. And so Dean feels. 

The road beneath his feet is crunchy. There is gravel, and mud. It’s too dark to see the exact color of it, weak as the moonlight is. Above him, the sky is a deep, dark blue-black. It’s a clear night, with few clouds, but he can see the stars. They shine bright, and for just a second - a second he won’t ever admit to - he feels that deeps sense of freedom and wonder those fancy poets keep goin’ on and on about. 

The night ain’t cold, but it ain’t warm either. He’s wearing just his nightshirt and his cloak over it. His skin prickles against the soft wind, and he shivers just a little. The smell of the road - tar and rock and dust - slowly morphs into the scent of freshly-watered grass as he gets closer. It’s a welcome change after the lingering dream-taste of soot and ash. 

It reminds him that he’s alive. 

He focuses on these little details as he walks. It doesn’t matter where he’s going - even if he needs to get there - as long as these things are there. The open sky, the night chill, the sound of the crickets and the echoing silence, they will keep him grounded. It’s those things he’s after, not the… not whatever his brain wants him to forget. 

Time passes. 

Dean doesn’t know how long he walks. His head throbs for a long, long time, and he lets it, focusing on the sensations of the world around him until it slowly begins to fade. When it finally feels like it’s gone, he comes to a stop. His heart is beating faster than usual, but not pounding like it was.

He keeps his mind purposefully blank when he looks up. In front of him, the massive estate - 

\- is gone. 

_Gone._

No. 

No, no, _no._

Son of a bitch. 

If the Vaught mansion - 

Pain flames across his head, a warning, and Dean falls to the ground, clutching at his head. Christ, this is his last chance. He needs to figure it - he needs - it _hurts_ \- he _needs_ \- 

“Dean?” 

That voice. 

Dean thrashes blindly. _Stop stop stop,_ he thinks, _just stop, I-_

A flash of pain. No, that’s not right. Not pain, but the memory of pain. Lying down on the ground, on this very estate, with Impala behind him. Something - _something_ \- it wanted him. Wanted to be free, wanted him to free them. Needed to be let go. 

He remembers this. 

“Dean!” 

That voice promised the-the things. The things that wanted to possess him - ghosts? Spirits? Something. It had drawn the _thing_ away, and Dean was free to breathe.

The voice saved him last time. 

“St-stop,” Dean pleads. He just needs this to end. “P-please.” 

It ends. 

Two fingers come to rest against his forehead. They feel warm against his chilled skin and Dean leans in to them as the pain fades slowly. Someone wraps their arms around him, and too weak to protest after the shit night he’s had, Dean allows himself to lean against them. 

It feels… safe. The chest he’s pushed into is muscular. A musky, masculine smell fills his nostrils, and he can feel light stubble against the edge of his ear, where the person’s chin brushes against him. They’re saying something, but the words are too far away, like they’re being dragged through the mud to his ears. 

A long, long moment of shaking later, Dean finally hears, “...I’m sorry, Dean, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize how this would hurt you, I-”

He looks up. 

_Blue eyes._

The world shattering. Glass piercing his skin. Pain lancing through his side, fading to nothing. _Dormio._

Dean stumbles back like he’s been burned. Fuck that, he _was_ burned - the magic-man in front of him was there to see that. 

Did he save him? Again? But he’s the one who… what? Cast a memory spell? 

Magic ain’t fuckin’ real. It _can’t_ be. 

“You!” he gasps, wobbling to his feet. “You-!”

The man smiles, a small, apologetic, shy thing. Dean blinks at the incongruity of it - this son of a bitch fought a ghost, and he’s… _shy_?

It makes no sense. 

“Hello, Dean,” he says softly. 

“Hello?” Dean snaps. “What the hell do you mean, hello?” 

Blue-Eyes frowns. “That is still the term?” 

“Yea-yeah, but that ain’t the point!” Dean waves his arms around. For a moment, memory overlays the present, and Blue-Eyes isn’t just a pretty man in a trench-coat. He’s that… that creature, with power and purpose, striding into the Vaught mansion to talk to a dead man. 

Magic. 

Dean blinks. The world doesn’t shatter this time, but it shifts. He understands. 

Frickin’ _magic._

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand-” 

“You did it,” Dean interrupts him. He clenches his fist, and repeats, loudly, “You fucking did this to me.”

The man’s face falls. “Dean, I-”

“You ain’t even gonna deny it?” 

“Would it do any good?” he replies. He sounds resigned. “You wouldn’t believe me anyway.” 

“You’re damn fucking straight I wouldn’t,” Dean mutters. 

“You curse a lot.” 

Dean stares. Because - what the heck? “So?” he snaps. 

"Nothing," the man says. "It's just surprising. Most men don't do it in public, that's all." 

Most men. He means, good men. _Civilized_ men, of class. 

Well. Dean ain't got that. It doesn't make him any less fucking smart. "Yeah, well, most men don't get kicked outta the Army for sucking a man's cock," he snaps, irrationally angry. There's a deep sliver of hurt in that statement; he's self-aware enough to know that he can only pretend that it don't hurt. 

"That's not," Blue-Eyes flounders. "I'm not, I didn't-" he takes stops. Straightens his shoulders, and says, "I did not mean it as offence. I apologize."

A distant part of Dean's brain notes just how pretty he looks, with all that damned red lighting up his cheeks. Dean chases it away. "Tell me what the hell you did to me," he says, harshly. "What happened here?" 

"What do you recall?" 

"I remember the ghost. I remember being here," he waves at the Vaught mansion, "and.." _I remember you,_ he does not say. 

The expression on Blue-Eyes's face is… strange. Part concern, and if Dean didn't know any better, part awe? 

"You… you're a wonder, Dean Winchester," Blue-Eyes whispers. The corner of his lips curve up in a tired smile. "Though I suppose I should've expected that from Mary's son."

_Mary's son._

The memory returns, a dream-haze patchwork of words and sounds, but he knows it's true. He _remembers_ it. 

"You knew my mother," Dean is shaking. "Who the _hell_ -" 

"Dean, duck!"

He's barely heard the arrow whoosh past him silently before it slams into Blue-Eyes's shoulder with the same force the bullet that once tore through Dean's leg. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

_**D E A N** _

"What the fuc-" he yelps.

A second arrow whooshes past them, burying itself into the tree trunk right in front of them. Dean grabs Blue-Eyes and they both stumble, careening across the grass and right into the tree. 

Blue-Eyes groans. A third arrow, and a fourth fly by, and land barely two feet away. The instinct that guided Dean through war tells him what this is. 

An assassination attempt. 

"Wh-what the hell is happening?" he grunts. 

Blue-Eyes shakes his head. His eyes are glazed over in pain, but he pushes Dean to the other side of the tree, where they can take cover from the onslaught. 

"I'm not… I don't know," Blue-Eyes stammers. 

"Shit sticks," Dean mutters. Something bright explodes behind them, and he ducks instinctively, even though the tree stops them. 

Blue-Eyes grits his teeth. With a loud groan, he takes his hand off of his shoulder and holds it up to the sky, where it glints copper-red from the moonlight bouncing off of it. 

"The hell you doing?! "Put pressure on that!" Dean slams his hand on the man's shoulder, and then yanks him down, as something else flew past them and burst into the shrubbery in front of them. 

Shit. 

Bullets. Frickin' _bullets_. 

"I'm fine!" Blue-Eyes snaps. He shrugs Dean's hand off, and then raises his hand. In quick, jerky motions that Dean can hardly follow, he traces something into the air. Light flashes for the slightest second, before it vanishes.

Something inside Dean pricks - he's _seen_ that symbol. 

Before he can chase that thought, Blue-Eyes throws him a pendant, and says, "Call Charlie. Tell her to send reinforcements." 

"Call-what?!" 

"Just do it!" And then, Blue-Eyes walks out, throwing himself into the action. 

He may actually be insane. 

Dean scrambles, pulls the pendant close to himself. He holds it up to the moonlight, and then stares, because he knows this pendant. It's the one Blue-Eyes asked him to take care of when confronted Ketch's ghost. 

Shit fuck. It looks exactly like the one that Sam gave him. That Bobby gave Sam to give him, and Bobby only had that because… 

_Mary's son._

The sound of a loud explosion behind him drags him back to the present. Dean pushes his own pendant into his shirt, and holds Blue-Eyes's pendant up, turning it in his hand. 

How the hell does he call… Charlie? Yeah, Charlie. Some kinda those fancy military radios that didn’t work most of the time? Dean turns the pendant around in his hand. There don’t seem to be no receiver. How the heck does he call? 

“Who are you?” Blue-Eyes yells. The only answer he gets is that of many explosions, and a loud grunt. 

Dean winces. Fine then, can’t hurt. He holds the pendant up again, and thinks, _Charlie? Man, you here?_

A moment passes. Nothing. On the other side, he hears Castiel yell something in Latin - he’s too frazzled to figure out what he’s sayin’ - and thinks, _Fuck this, I ain’t hidin’ like a coward._

He’s just about to dump the pendant and join him, when a shrill voice says, _Cas? Cas, what the hell?_

Charlie’s… a girl?! Dean grunts. _Cursin’ exactly ain’t lady-like, is it sweetheart?_

 _Who are you?_ Dean doesn’t know how he can read the coldness of her voice, but it flows through clearly. _Why do you have Castiel’s loquitur?_

Who the hell names their communications device "talks"? _Because he gave it to me,_ Dean answers, rolling his eyes. _Gave it to me, and then fucking walked into a massacre. You may wanna send someone to help us, if you don’t want him turning into dead-meat. Literally._

She goes silent for a long moment, and then says, _Where are you?_

_Vaught mansion._

_You remember?_ Dean gets the sensation of shaking her head, and how the hell can he feel that-? N _ever mind. Are you both alive?_

_I’m fine. Your uh - boss? - got hit with an arrow. He’s bleedin’ out, but he ran out to fight whoever decided to attack us._

_Can you describe them?_

Dean shrugs. Behind him, he hears the sound of something metal clanging against other metal. It takes him a second to place it - swords. It has to be. Hell’s bells. 

_No damned clue,_ he says. _They’re all wearin’ masks and they’re flyin’._ Before she can reply, he adds, _Look, hurry on up and send people. Imma go out there and help your fella survive._

_Dean, wait-_

He drops the pendant on the ground, and then jumps out, just in time to see a frickin’ _flamin’_ arrow heading towards Castiel, who’s got his back turned to fight the guy who’s wavin’ a sword in his face.

Without another word, Dean runs towards him, and slams into Castiel, throwing him out of the way. The flaming arrow pierces through the mask-covered man Castiel was dueling with - the man cries out loud, and drops the sword, falling to his knees to grab at the arrow in front of him. 

“No, don’t pull it out!” Castiel yells. His own arrow is still poking out of his shoulder, but the end of it has torn off, leaving a half-broken piece of wood hanging out. Dean thinks he can see muscle and bone poking through the hole, and it makes him sick. How the hell is Castiel fightin’ like that? 

The man on the ground groans, and attempts to pull the arrow out again. “No!” Castiel cries out, and falls to the ground. His sword falls to the ground, and then vanishes, and Dean swallows hard - magic. If ever needed proof of it, here it is. 

He turns his attention to Castiel. “You goddamned idiot,” he huffs, because Castiel is attempting to save the fallen man. “Come on!” he grabs the back of Castiel’s coat and yanks. 

“No!” Castiel struggles. “No, he’s hurt, he’s-” 

“Tryin’ to kill ya, you idiot!” Dean snaps. he stench of blood fills his nose, and an old instinct - one he thought long gone - rears its head. From the corner of his eyes, he sees - 

\- there!

He grabs the other sword - the one that the wounded assassin was using - and swings blindly. It hits; whoever was tryin’ to cut Castiel down falls. Dean pointedly avoids looking at where the man fell. 

He throws the sword to the side, and is about to yank Castiel to the back of the tree, when somewhere nearby, something explodes. 

“Get down!” he yells, throwing himself against Castiel, who stumbles. They roll across the ground, and the last thing Dean sees is an angry, feminine face, framed by hair as red as Castiel’s blood. 

And then, everything goes black. 

_**C A S T I E L** _

Everything hurts. 

Consciousness is slow to come. His body feels sluggish - did he inhale a pot of Charlie’s latest _fumus_. The last batch of those smoky healing vapors she brewed was powerful enough to keep him asleep for days. 

It didn’t hurt though. 

He wants to go back to sleep. Everything would be alright when he awoke, wouldn’t it? That’s what he told Dean. 

_Dean!_

Castiel sits up, groaning loudly when a jolt of pain seers through his side. He grabs his shoulder, almost surprised to feel the coarse material of a bandage wrapped around it. 

“Cas!” 

“Woah there, soldier.” 

Two familiar voices, one feminine, and the other masculine, cut across the room at the same time.

A moment later, Charlie enters his line of sight, and smiles at him softly. He smiles back at her, and then winces when she punches his not-wounded shoulder gently. “You scared me, you idiot,” she scolds him. 

“It isn’t the first time I’ve been hurt,” he protests. 

“It is the first time you almost died, Cas,” she says. Castiel has to acknowledge that yes, that’s true. He’s never been so close to death before - being a Bunker-Head with a depository of magic behind him tends to keep him alive. 

As though listening in on his thoughts - he checks to make sure he’s not wearing a loquitur - Charlie glares at him. “The next time,” she says, “you run off on your own, I will add a tracking spell to your coat.” 

“You should do that anyway,” the male voice says. “If he’s reckless enough to try to save the life of the guy who was tryin’ to kill him.” 

“Dean,” Castiel croaks. 

_He’s beautiful._ Castiel’s heart thumps a little beat. He mentally growls at it - this is Mary’s son. The son he hurt. 

Because he did hurt him, that much he knows. The way he was curled up on the ground, trying to break through the memory spell Castiel himself had cast… inadvertently, yes, but he hurt Dean. 

Swallowing tightly, he says, “Dean.” 

Dean surveys him through green eyes that look so like Mary’s. “Castiel,” he acknowledges. “Glad you finally decided to wake up.” 

“Finally?” Castiel looks between Dean and Charlie. She has moved to sit in the chair next to him, and he realizes that he is in the Bunker’s infirmary. “How long have I…”

“Three days,” Charlie says. “I’ve brought Dean up to speed.” 

“Up to - speed?” 

Dean looks at him. His face is mostly impassive, but there is a tightening around the skin of his mouth that tells Castiel what he’s really feeling.

Charlie looks between the two of them, and then rolls her eyes. “Goshdarned men,” she mutters to herself. 

“You swear a lot, sweetheart.” Dean’s slow drawl and the raised eyebrow makes Castiel frown. Before he can say anything though, Charlie rolls her eyes, and says, “I do. What’s it to you, cowboy?” 

Dean raises his hands. “Just surprised,” he says. “Unlike _me_ ,” he smirks at Castiel as he says it, “Ladies don’t usually curse.” The implication is clear - _why were you surprised at me when you’re second-in-command swear as much, if not more?_

Castiel flushes, and looks away. Charlie just sighs and shakes her head. “I’m not getting in between this one,” she says. “Cas, I’ll be out of your hair - just tell me, how’re you feeling?” 

“My shoulder hurts a little, but not as I would expect it to. I assume that’s Kelly’s doing?” 

“And Lisa’s, yeah,” Charlie nods. “The arrow hit your subclavian artery, you lost a lot of blood.” She sounds absolutely exhausted. For the first time, Castiel notices the dark circles under her eyes, and just how pale she looks, and feels his stomach churn with guilt. 

Reaching out, he grabs her hand and squeezes it gently. “I’m alright, Red,” he says quietly. “You - and Dean-” he nods his head at Dean, “Saved me.” 

Charlie takes a deep breath. Squeezing his hand back, she says, “And the assassins? Do you remember anything about them?” 

“Dean didn’t-?” 

“No, he didn’t,” Dean interrupts. “Because Dean didn’t frickin’ know why he was attacked. Because Dean didn’t _remember_.” 

Castiel winces. Charlie whistles low at the back of her throat, and smiles, a little sheepishly. 

“That,” he clears his throat, “Makes sense.” 

Dean glares at him, but doesn’t respond otherwise. 

Castiel sighs and tells Charlie, “No, I couldn’t recognize them. Although…” he frowns. In the haze of battle and pain, he did not think much about it, but now, in retrospect, it occurs to him that the attackers were especially focused on… 

"Dean," he breathes. "They were after you."

"Of fucking course," Dean mutters. "Why me though?" 

"Cas, you don't think it was Vaught?" 

"I cannot think of anyone else who might want to harm any of us," Castiel replies. 

Dean's eyes widen. "Vaught?" he says. "Nicholas Vaught? He's the one who hired me!" he laughs, a bitter, shattered thing, and Castiel's heart aches. "Of course he tried to have me killed. I should've known the deal was too good to be true."

"Dean-" 

Dean shrugs off Charlie's hand, and shakes his head. "Goddamned it." He turns to Castiel. "Why the hell would he want to kill me?" 

"To get the Book of Life," Charlie says. "That's what he hired you for, wasn't it?" 

Dean startles but then rolls his eyes. "I'm not even sure why I'm surprised anymore. Do you know everything about everyone?" he directs the question at Charlie. 

"Generally, yeah," she grins. 

"She's my second-in-command for a reason," Castiel says. 

"Yeah, explain that." Dean's eyes bore into him. "What is-" he waves his hand across the Infirmary, as though to encompass everything he's seen in the past couple of days, "-all this?" 

"...and that's my cue," Charlie says. "I'm going to leave now. Try not to kill each other." She looks between them, and then shrugs, "Or I'll send Benny after you." 

Without waiting for a reply, she stalks out of the room, and shuts the door behind her. 

Silence falls between them. Given that Castiel's entire Bunker was pulled out of the Vaught retrieval mission altogether, it was no wonder that there were no injuries. Kelly would have Healed any small ones instantly; it's only the larger, more complicated wounds and illnesses that require a full stay in the Infirmary. All that adds up to a singularly empty Infirmary, and the silence feels… loud. 

"I knew him you know," Dean is the one to finally break the silence. "Benny. Or… I thought I did. We went through the War together. He didn't even blink when he saw me fuckin' another man in the barracks." 

Castiel winces. He can sense where this is going. 

"I trusted him to have my back. And he's… A vampire. A goddamn _vampire_." The laugh that rips itself out of Dean's throat is ugly. 

"If it helps," Castiel says, "He did not become a vampire until after the War." 

Dean stops laughing to stare at him incredulously. "How would that help?" he spits out. "My friend - my _brother_ \- is a vampire. My lunatic client, who I stupidly thought to be only eccentric, is after my life, and the guy who saved me with his weird hokey-pokey is my Ma's old friend, and I'm stuck here, in some godforsaken underground fortress, when my Dad and my brother are probably looking for me out there. Tell me, _Cas_ , how the hell is it supposed to help?" 

Castiel's heart squeezes painfully, thumping once, twice, before letting up. "I'm sorry," he says. "I should not have played with your memory."

"No," Dean snaps. "You damn well shouldn't have." 

They stare at one another, all the moments since they'd met hanging between them. Castiel is the one to look away first, his eyes stinging. 

"You are a lot like her," he says. "Your mother."

Dean says nothing, but his lips purse, and he clenches his fist. 

Castiel thinks he understands. He remembers golden hair, warm smiles, and chilly late nights when Mary would sneak him out to get apple pie. He remembers that he was only seven when he lost her, and he remembers that Dean was even younger than that when she died. 

_What is lost is not found, and what is found is not to be lost._

The words of the spirit echo around in the recesses of his brain. Castiel thinks, _I've lost Mary. Maybe… I can keep her son._

With a light grunt, he gets off of his bed. He stumbles almost immediately, as pain shoots through his side. 

"Woah, woah," Dean says. He catches Castiel, and holds him up, "Easy, man. Your fairy, what's her name, Kelliana, said you gotta take light."

"Fae, not fairy," Castiel corrects. "And... you spoke to her?" He's surprised.

"Yeah?" Dean eyes him. "Was I not supposed to?" 

Castiel shakes his head. "She lives her of her own accord, but she doesn't talk to humans much. None of the Hunters except me, Charlie and Lisa, and that's only because Lisa runs the Infirmary." 

Dean shrugs. "What can I say, the ladies love me."

"Certainly." Castiel does _not_ snap. He's got more patience than that. He grand Dean's arm, and says, a little impatiently, "Help me to the Archives. I want to show you something."

"Man, I don't think it's a good idea-" Dean says, uneasy. 

Castiel glares him into silence. "Help me to the Archives," he repeats, this time through gritted teeth. 

Dean doesn't argue. 

_**D E A N** _

“You want me to _what_?” Dean stares at Castiel. 

“Allow me into your mind,” Castiel says, his voice steady. It’s the slight twitch of his eyebrows that give him away. “I wish to show you something.” 

They’re in the Archives, in a far corner in the back, between the bookshelves. Dean’s sitting at the end of a long, wooden table. Castiel is on the side, next to him. On the table, in front of them, there’s a box, all stuffed with little trinkets and small items that probably ain’t worth jack in the real world. 

It means the world to Cas - _Castiel_ , he thinks. An old, faded notebook, with corrections done in red-pen in the margin. A hat, too small for him now, but knitted by Mary Winchester - Mary Campbell then. The statue of a tiny dragon, in a faded blue color that was clearly meant to match Castiel’s eyes. 

All things, Ma had made. He recognizes her handwriting - he’s got one old, torn-up grocery list she’d written, tucked away in the corner of his jacket at home. There’s a history here, one that Dean ain’t a part of, and he knows himself enough to know that he’s _hurt_. 

In the past few weeks, he’s chased after a legendary object that is apparently real, seen an actual live ghost, been possessed by some gargoyles, accepted the existence of goddamned magic, and nearly killed - twice - in an attack. 

None of that has turned his world on its head as much as seein’ Ma like this has. 

And now Cas - _Castiel_ , he reminds himself - wants to show somethin’? Dean may just be a poor sinner, but he ain’t stupid. He knows where this is goin’. 

“Please,” Castiel says, quietly. 

And goddamn it. Dean can’t deny him, all red and flushed and looking down. He’s beautiful, and he’s turned Dean’s life upside down, and it’s _Ma_ he’s offerin’ an actual piece of. Dean may be hurt, but he’s a selfish asshole, and there ain’t no way he can say no to that. 

Even if it feels intimate as hell. 

So Dean sighs and leans in. “Tell me what to do, hero,” he says. 

Castiel’s smile is goddamned precious. It’s all shy and sweet, and Dean drinks it up. He doesn’t think anyone’s ever been this soft with him before. 

He lowers his gaze, and asks, “What do I gotta do?” 

“Nothing,” Castiel says, “Except trust me.” 

Dean’s eyes fly to his. Blue eyes, indeed. Dean ain’t a poet, he can’t describe them any other way, because they’re the blue of the ocean and the skies on the happiest days, and he’s seen precious few of those, but he knows them in his heart. 

“I do trust you.” The words tumble out; it isn’t until he’s said them that he realizes that they’re true. He does trust Castiel - _Cas_. Despite everything, despite the fact that Cas was the one to cast that memory spell… Cas didn’t have to bring him back here. Cas didn’t have to share those pieces of Ma he’s been clearly hoarding all this time, and Cas doesn’t have to apologize to him for choosing to do what he thought was right at the time. 

Cas is… Cas is a Bunker-Head, and Dean’s nothin’. Just a lowly soldier, kicked outta the Army for doin’ somethin’ he shouldn’t, and Cas deserves better. Dean can’t give him much, but this… this he can give. 

He takes his hand and deliberately places it down on the table, palm facing upwards, and says, “I do, Cas. I do trust you.” 

Castiel’s smile widens. “Thank you, Dean,” he says. He reaches out, a little hesitant, and takes Dean’s hand. Squeezing gently, he says, “Close your eyes.” 

Dean does. 

_“Memoriae!”_

And falls into the memory. 

_**C A S T I E L** _

It has been decades, and yet Castiel falls into the memory as easily as if it were yesterday. He is sure Mary was not the first person he loved - there is the vague distant image of his parents, lost to the dredges of his child-brain. Mary is, however, the first person he _remembers_ loving. Losing her… it was devastating. 

He closed himself off for the longest time. If the person who loved him could leave so easily, what guarantee had he that anyone else would stay? 

Charlie was the first person since, to convince him that she wasn't going anywhere. And even with her, he closes himself off in part, because he is safer that way. Justifies it as being a Bunker-Head and protecting her, but he knows. In his own mind, he knows why he won’t share himself entirely. 

And here he is, ready to show that part to Dean. 

It's a thought he brushes away; it's Mary's _son_. As little time as he had with her, Dean has had far less, and Castiel has never been the one to let anyone suffer when he could help. 

So he grabs Dean's hand, traces the sigil for _memory_ and lets himself fall into the past. 

The first thing that hits him is the smell. Warm earth, muddy between his fingers, mingling with the green scent of the herbs. _Thyme,_ he recalls, and _nutmeg_. Hints of vanilla and basil also add to the strong notes of good fortune and rest that hang in the air, and Castiel breathes in deeply. 

He remembers this lesson. 

Mary is in front of him, dressed in her white dress-up man's shirt. She took particular pleasure in fighting norms, he recalls, particularly for those of young women her age. Her long blonde hair flows down her shoulders, and her eyes - such a moss-green to match that of her son's - are twinkling down at his younger, four-year-old self. 

He _misses_ her. 

The ache returns from where he's buried it, pulsing in his breast, throbbing. After years of pretending this hurt doesn't exist… it wants its vengeance, certainly. 

The memory shifts. Reality bends, melding into this moment, and he hangs, suspended between here and _there_ . Distantly, he hears Dean's cry of _No,_ and _Please,_ and _Come back, Ma,_ and Castiel aches with him, the same ache of a lost child who lost his family too soon in life. 

And that's when the world settles. He hasn't withdrawn yet, but this feels less vulnerable, less likely to hurt. 

He is about six in this memory, now officially in training to become a Hunter. He'd already dreamed then, of becoming a full Night-Hunter, of leading the Bunker. Of course, he was going to be second-in-command, not the Head, because _Mary_ was going to be his Head. 

He would have once followed her into the depths of hell, he thinks. 

She is frowning down at him. She is holding a piece of paper on her hand, scanning the document slowly, before she turns to young Castiel, who is curled up next to her. 

"I failed," he says. Castiel remembers this, remembers how he took his first test, and he'd failed. Failed, by a single point. 

Mary smiles. She sets the test down on the bed next to them, and holds out her arms. His younger self doesn't hesitate - he throws his arms around her, and wails, loudly and insistently, into her chest. Mary runs her hand down his hair, gentle but firm, and says, "I've failed too, you know."

Little Cas pulls back and stares up at her, wide-eyed. The effect is comical; he has snot running down his nose, mixing with tears, and his face is red and splotchy. "You did?" he asks, and Castiel still feels this, feels this wonder at the thought that Mary, his wonderful, talented, brilliant older tutor, could possibly have failed once. 

"I did," Mary confirms. There is a mischief in her eyes that he remembers well. She reaches down to wipe the wet away from his face, and continues, "My parents were so angry. They wanted me to be the best you know." 

"You _are_ the best, Mary!" little Cas chirps. 

A rush of bitterness fills Castiel. Lord, he trusted her so much. This wound hasn't healed. It has merely scabbed over, and he's put it away to fester. 

"I wasn't always," she smiles. "I'll tell you a secret, kiddo. It's okay to fail. Life is hard, you are almost certainly going to end up failing."

He remembers the way his heart fell then, this feeling that there is no point in doing anything if he's only ever going to fail. 

"I will?" Little Cas pouts. "But I don't want to fail!" 

Mary reaches out and pats his cheek. Gently smoothing out his hair, she says, "There's no shame in failing, Cas. What matters is what you do after you fail. You gotta try hard again, and again, and then again, until you get it right this time. And then," she snaps her fingers, "You're not failing anymore. See?!" 

Castiel wants to cry. His chest is tight. His heart is bleeding, and he can't _breathe_. 

He was wrong. Every memory of her hurts. Because she left him, and he has been so alone, for so very long. 

Reality tilts again. Castiel lets it. He floats in the waves of memory and allows himself to dissolve into them - he is pain and hurt and love, and he misses her, misses her so much. 

Of course, it would end here, in this moment. 

Castiel remembers this, perhaps with more clarity than anything else in his life. It is sharp, crisp, like most fall mornings. He's standing at the edge of the Bunker gate, staring out into the distance. 

Mary turns, one last time. Her eyes are filled with tears, and she's clutching at the loquitur he thrust at her not fifteen minutes earlier. Her cloak covers most of her small form, but her hair is still unbound, flowing down to her waist like the last golden sunlight of the year. At her side, there is a small satchel, hanging off her side, barely the size of a notebook.

Winter approaches. The smell of fallen trees and wood-smoke hangs heavy in the air, and the world is a shock of browns and reds and yellows. The end of a season. To the child he was, it feels like the end of his whole world.

She heaves one, shaky breath. Then, slowly, deliberately, she turns. Takes one step, and then two, and then three, and by the twenty-seventh, she has vanished. Not even her cloak is visible. 

Castiel feels it. The same agony he felt then, the same agony his younger self is sobbing out now, into the cold morning, yelling, screaming at her to come back. She's the only mother he's ever known, and he's lost her, once here, in this moment, and then again, when she died, _died_ , and left him behind to mourn the loss of the second chance he didn't even know he wanted. 

She's gone _._

He will never get to see her again. Never get to know who she became, never get to show her who he became. He will never hug her, never be angry with her for leaving him, never tell her how grateful he is for loving him when no one else did. He's avoided finding out for so long, and then Dean came, and he had to find out the truth because he owes Dean that much.

She's _gone._

The grief is an avalanche. Cruel, unforgiving and as it thunders out of the box he has kept locked away all this time. 

So it is, when the gentle touch comes, when another grief joins his own, younger, newer, but no less powerful, and he allows it, allows it to hold him, cradle him, cradles it in return, and lets himself feel the familiar parts of _Mary_ in Dean, and revel in the new parts that are entirely new, parts that are _Dean_ himself. 

And then reality shifts again.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

_**C A S T I E L** _

Castiel opens his eyes to the sight of a young Dean sitting at the kitchen table. In front of him, Mary is at the stove, singing softly as she flips the pancake. Little Dean is humming along with her, the two of them all laughs and smiles. 

“Na, nana na naa, nana na naa,” Mary croons. 

“Naa naa naaaa,” little Dean shows a toothless grin, hair flopping back, and looking as softly adorable as Castiel has ever seen. 

“Na nanana naaa!” they both finish. Mary flourishes, and dips the pancake onto Dean’s plate exactly as the song ends, and Dean claps, delight showing on his face. 

They’re both terrible singers, but it doesn’t matter. Castiel’s chest seizes - Dean looks so happy. Contented in a way that doesn’t seem possible from the prickly, angry man he knows. 

And Mary. Older, with a more lined face, her hair now just slightly shorter than from his memory. _Stronger too,_ he thinks, and then wonders, what made her so? She still wears a jacket, but there’s a dress underneath it now, giving her a softer edge. 

She comes to sit with little Dean, who leans in to kiss her cheek before grabbing her hand. “Ready to say Grace?” she asks. 

“Yeah!” little Dean nods. 

Castiel stares in surprise, as they clasp hands, close their eyes, and lower their heads. Mary quickly takes them through it, and when they cheerfully announce _Amen_ , and dig into their food, he can’t help but feel a little off-balance. 

It… it isn’t that he does not believe in God. He does. It’s just that the Church does not always like questions. He turns his work into his prayers instead, because at least then, there is no institutionalized bigotry to keep him from loving God. 

Mary was the one to teach him how to do that. 

He watches as little Dean eats, messy as any child, and Mary teaches him how to clean himself up. Her voice is kind, if a little impatient, and in it, Castiel hears the echo of who she once was. 

It tells him what he needs to know. Perhaps she found her faith. Perhaps she did not, and much of this is performance. None of it matters, because she is _still_ gone, and neither he nor Dean will ever know her again. 

The grief comes again. Softer this time, more an understanding of what has happened that the lament of loss, but no less the painful for it. 

Reality shifts, one final time. 

Castiel can tell, the second he opens his eyes, that this is not a happy memory. The world feels… kilted. Off-balance. Bruise-hued and red-toned, as though not even time has blurred the edges. 

It starts in a nursery. 

It is not a big nursery, the room just barely large enough to house the crib, and the dresser to the side. There is a lamp stand next to the dresser, and stars hang above the crib. Even in the dark, the light blue of the walls blinks bright, and he feels how loved this place is. 

“C’mon, let’s say goodnight to your brother,” Mary’s voice cuts through the silence. She enters, with little Dean on her hip. The candle she holds throws strange, dancing shadows on to the wall, and Castiel feels the back of his neck prickle. 

Little Dean hops down, and runs over to the crib. Bending down, he kisses the baby inside, and says, “G’night, Sam.” 

_Sam._ Sam Winchester, the brother Dean has practically raised. 

“Goodnight, love,” Mary echoes, bending down to kiss her new baby. 

As she straightens, another voice comes in the hallway. “Hey Dean.” 

Little Dean’s face lights up as he turns. “Daddy!” he runs over and holds out his arms, and John Winchester obliges. 

It’s as he watches this scene that Castiel realizes just what is coming. Suddenly, with a level of clarity that rings in his bones, he knows what is going to happen. 

Everything in his body rebels. This _can’t_ be. The world can’t give him this glimpse of Mary - and Dean - and then take it away so cruelly, so senselessly. 

When John takes Dean away from the nursery, Castiel wants to scream. Go back, go back, go back, something isn’t _right_ \- 

They’re in Dean’s bedroom. The world is still. Quiet, as though it is holding its breath. Little Dean is asleep, but the grief that tinges the edges of this memory is vivid. Stark enough to make Castiel’s stomach churn. 

_Go back, go back, go back -_

He runs out of the room - _Mary!_ \- only to end up back in Dean’s room, watching him sleep. 

Castiel cannot do anything. This is a memory. This has already happened. 

_Lord, no, no, no, go back -_

And then the world is on fire. Heat scorching, and nothing but _red_ and John’s voice yelling _Take your brother and go Dean_ , and _red red red,_ and baby Sam in his arms, too heavy for a four-year-old, _red red red,_ but none of that matters, because Mary is dying, she is burning, she is being killed and there is so much _red -_

Castiel stumbles outside with little Dean, both of them nearly falling on their feet. For one, horrifying, clear moment, they both stare up at the nursery window, where fire burns. And then John Winchester wobbles outside, grabs Dean, and everything curls in on itself. 

The explosion knocks all of them off their feet. There is nothing but grief, and grief, and loss, and he can’t tell if it is his pain or Dean’s, if the hurt is from the gravel and the glass and the heat burning into their skin, or if it is the ash that spills out the window, knowing that Mary was inside there. 

The world continues to burn, without a single care. 

And Castiel finally screams. 

*-*-*

When he finally awakes, his mouth feels like cotton, everything stiff and dry. His entire body is aflame with pain, his bandages red, and he knows he has probably reopened his wound. He opens his eyes, somehow still expecting to see blood and fire -

\- nothing. 

They’re in the Archives. Drafty and dusty, and almost always empty because few people ever come down here, into the Basement. The Bunker is already underground, nobody else wants to go further down. They’re on the floor somehow, the chairs they were sitting on thrown aside - they must have fallen off, he realizes.

Next to him, Dean stirs. His face is tear-stained, fists clenched, and Castiel feels his heart break. Dean loved Mary, loves as Castiel himself loves her, the memory cherished and preserved, the altar at which they have both laid their lives. 

"Dean?" he says. 

Dean does not reply. He groans, just a bit, and then sits up. His hands are trembling, Castiel notes, but before he can offer any sort of comfort, Dean has turned around. 

Castiel's heart sinks. He understands, he thinks. Understands, but does not like it. They shared grief, in those memories, grief and loss, but also love, because they were both raised by the same woman who once loved them. 

"Dean." he reaches out to touch Dean's shoulder, and tries not to be offended when he flinches in response. "Dean." 

A moment of silence. And then Dean sighs, shaking his hand off. His body stiffens, and he turns around, features neatly arranged into an impassive, expressionless face. "Well, Cas," he says, and the false cheer in his voice outstrips any quiet thrill that Castiel feels at his use of Cas. "That was… a trip, huh? I guess I gotta thank you!" 

"Dean," Castiel snaps. "You don't have to-" 

"No, Cas, I do," Dean says, loudly. "I do have to thank you, you shared-" 

There is a pointed sneer in his tone, one that diminishes everything they just went through, and Castiel may understand, but he isn't going to let him do this. 

"No," he says quietly. "No, Dean, stop. Don't… Don't cheapen this. Please." 

Dean stared at him, wild-eyed and messy-haired, and it's the hurt in his eyes that pushes Castiel forward. 

Without another word, Castiel leans in, cups his cheek. He swipes a thumb across the stubble, wiping away the single tear that has fallen. He looks up, into wet, red-rimmed green eyes, and thinks, _Yes. I will keep him. If he wants me._

When he leans in close, Dean is the one who closes that gap. 

Their lips press together, first soft and sweet, and then harder, all wet heat and rough skin. Dean's stubble pricks at Castiel’s cheek and chin, and his arms come up to wrap around Castiel. He is so gentle, so very unlike the image he presents to the world. 

“Cas,” he breathes when they pull apart. “Cas, I-”

Castiel huffs and kisses him again. Dean melts into him immediately, this kiss this much harder and rougher, and Lord, Castiel wants to take him apart, bit by bit. 

Which is why it comes as a surprise when Dean pushes him away a second later. He is panting, his face flushed, lips slick-wet and swollen, and his eyes dilated. Castiel wants to wrap himself around him and never let go, but the hand on his chest is firm. 

“Wha-”

“What the hell was that?” Dean say. “You gunin’ for my pants, Cas?” 

It hurts, oh Lord, it _hurts_ to see the way Dean turns what was, only seconds ago, an endearment. His shoulder is on fire, but Castiel ignores it. He sees the way Dean is still shaking, the way he looks like he is about to break from the lightest touch. 

The thing about memory is, it isn’t perfect. Memory is malleable, changing shape and form to suit the brain. What we truly remember is what we feel - _the origin of subjectivity,_ Mary told him once. 

Castiel has shared that memory with Dean. He has seen what Dean remembers, what he feels. 

And that’s why, instead of throwing his own walls back up, he catches the hand Dean placed on his chest in his own palms, and brings it up to his lips. He looks at Dean, blue meeting green in a tidal wave, and then kisses Dean’s fingertips one by one. Dean looks gutted, as though he has been gored through the chest with a sword, and it pulls at something within Castiel that Mary’s son should feel so isolated. 

“Dean,” he murmurs. There is no resistance when he leans in, and wraps his arms around Dean’s waist. “Dean.”

“Cas-”

“You said you trusted me,” Castiel says. “Did you mean it?” 

Dean swallows. Castiel watches the bob of his throat, and marvels that he wants to kiss it. _Soon,_ he vows. 

“Yes,” Dean says. 

Castiel places a lingering kiss to the corner of his lips. “Then, Dean, trust me. When I make love to you,” he deliberately grinds his hips against Dean’s, and smiles, satisfied, at the way he groans and flops his head back in answer. “It won’t be a quick fuck in some dark corner. We aren’t hiding, Dean, and I’m not ashamed of you. I mean to press you down to my bed, linger over you, for hours and hours.”

“You’ll break me.” Dean’s voice is a mangled sob. 

“Then I will put you back together,” Castiel promises him. “You deserve that much, Dean.” 

The words hang heavy in the dusty air between them for a long, silent moment, before Dean shudders and nods. 

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah, Cas.” 

Castiel smiles. “Good,” he says. He kisses Dean, one last time, lingering and biting at his lower lip, before pulling back. “Good boy.” 

_**D E A N** _

See, it ain’t that Dean’s an idiot. He’s smart, he worked his way into college, and he helped the Armies in the First War as a Mystery Raider until he got kicked out. He ain’t got the ruthless business sense those upper classes got, maybe, but he _is_ smart. 

Which is why it makes absolutely no sense that his brain turned to mush at the sight of Castiel smilin’ and callin’ him a _Good boy_. 

Christ. 

Castiel’s pretty, sure, but Dean knows how to control himself around pretty men. It ain’t that. It’s the fact that Castiel offered himself up so easy, and gave Dean all the parts of Ma that he remembers, made Dean trust him enough to share the parts of Ma he’s kept hoarded away all these years. He hasn’t even shared those memories with Sammy. 

Something in his chest hurts. Everything is too tight, his body is too wound up, and he breathes slowly, trying to uncoil. Whatever is happenin' between them, it needs to wait until this shit is sorted out. 

Which is why he gets to his feet, still trembling lightly, and offers a hand to Cas. Cas smiles, and takes it, pulling himself to his feet. That’s when Dean notices the reddened bandage on his shoulder. 

“Cas! Your shoulder!” 

“I’m fine, Dean,” Cas shrugs off his touch. It stings a little, and that must’ve shown on his face, as Cas smiles and says, “I’ll get Lisa to take a look at it when we get back.” 

Dean huffs. “I’m tellin’ her to get Charlie. You do need a tracker on you.” 

Cas chuckles, and the sound sends somethin’ warm and soft runnin’ through Dean. they sit down at the table again, closer this time, so that their hands keep brushing. They’re shooting shy smiles at one another, like they’re little kids at a town fair. 

There’s a part of Dean, the one that bears all the ugliness and the shit, that tells him that this is gonna implode in his face, like every other single damn thing in his life. He tells it to shut the hell up, because if things are gonna explode anyway, then he might has well enjoy the last few minutes he’s got left. 

What was it Ma said? 

_There's no shame in failing. What matters is what you do after you fail. You gotta try hard again, and again, and then again, until you get it right this time. And then, you're not failing anymore._

Secondhand advice, given to someone who is not him. It dunn’t matter - Dean’s been hungerin’ for advice from Ma since he was four-years-old, and he’s gonna take what he can get. 

He looks down at the memorabilia lying scattered around the table. The small knitted hat, the blue dragon, and the notebook she corrected. Little things of her that Cas has hoarded, that he’s sharin’. 

“She loved you,” Cas says, suddenly.

Dean looks up. “You think so?” 

“Yeah. I know what her face looks like when she loves someone. She loved you,” Cas repeats. There’s a light sheen of tears in his eyes, and just like that, Dean’s jealousy fades away. 

He smiles. “Yeah,” he says softly. “She loved you too.” 

They both look back down. Cas picks up the dragon, turns it around in his hands, and says, absently, “She liked carving and sculpting. She did not often get time for it, but, when she did,” he holds it up to Dean, “She made small things for everyone.” 

Dean remembers an angel in the nursery, one with blue eyes and a long, brown tunic, and thinks he knows who that angel was based on now. “It’s beautiful,” he says, pressing one finger down the dragon’s lightly-ridged spine. 

“Dean.” 

It’s the tone of Cas’s voice that has his attention. “What, Cas?” 

“Dean, I’m sorry, I… but I don’t think Mary’s death was an accident.” 

Dean’s brow furrows. “What d’ya mean?” 

“When you shared that memory with me,” Cas says. “The memory was tinged. Blurred, almost. At first I thought it was because it was a painful memory, and because it’s been many years.” He presses his hand over Dean’s on the dragon, and says, “But I don’t think that was it. You felt it, didn’t you?” 

And goddamn Christ in a wheel, _yes_. He did feel it. He’s known it for decades, convinced himself that it was just an accident. The candle tipped over, Ma went to save Sammy, and that was that. Easy. Simple. A world of hurts wrapped up in it, but easy to understand for a brain that had needed that lie then.

“Cas…” he can feel his lower lip tremblin’. Why does _everything_ come back to this? Why does it always frickin’ hurt? 

“I’m not trying to hurt you, Dean,” Cas squeezes his fingers carefully. The same fingers he kissed, one by one, just a few minutes ago. “But sometimes wounds need to be lanced to heal completely.” 

Dean inhales shakily. When he nods, it feels like a declaration. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, Cas.”

*-*-*

When Charlie and Benny and the rest of the Hunters join them, about an hour later, Dean feels ready to drop. He’s been through the story about three times now, and that’s three times more than he’s ever spoken of it through his entire life.

He breaks away from the group and retreats a little further into the stacks, allowing himself to blend into the darkness. It works for a little while, until a taller, burlier figure comes to join him there. 

Dean’s neck prickles with discomfort, but he loosens his posture deliberately. All said and done, this is Benny. Benny’s got his back. He was - _is_ \- his brother. 

“Hey Chief,” comes the low, lilting drawl. 

Dean smiles. “That ain’t me anymore, Benny.”

“No one ever said you gotta have only one Chief.” Benny shrugs. He pauses, and then says, quietly, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, brother.”

Dean shakes his head. “No,” he says. “You did what you gotta do. I can respect that.” 

“Still,” Benny sighs. “I didn’t… I thought about it, couple a times. Wanted to come by, see how you were doin’.”

“But-?”

“Didn’t think you’d want a vampire sittin’ around in your house.” 

“Well, you thought wrong.” Dean clasps his shoulder. They watch, in companionable silence, as Charlie wields the room around her. She’s like a warrior goddess, marshaling everyone into different troops, and holding court with Cas like she’s made for it. 

Benny is the one who breaks it. “What the hell is goin’ on, Chief?” 

Dean glances at him. “Apparently,” he says, “the old lunatic, who hired me to find the Book of Life everyone thinks _he_ stole, wants to kill me. Not sure how this connects back to my Ma, though.” Dean shrugs, and adds, casually, “She was murdered, we think.” 

“Hell on a stick.” Benny closes his eyes and rubs his face. Then, he says, “I wish I’d been there. That night, with Castiel. He shouldn’t have had to go alone.” 

“Why didn’t you?”

Benny raises his eyebrow. “He didn’t tell ya? Of course he didn’t,” he adds, even before Dean can nod, “He’s even more closed off that you are, brother.”

Dean turns wondering eyes to Cas, remembering the soft pliantness of his mouth. He wasn’t closed off then. 

“Thing is,” Benny says, “When Castiel got back from Ketch mansion, Michael was waitin’. Michael is the Head of all Bunkers,” he explains at Dean’s questioning look, “and he already made up his mind that his brother was the one who stole the Book.”

“So?”

“His brother is Nicholas Vaught,” Benny says. “And he wanted to launch an attack to get the Book back, but Castiel protested the lack of evidence. Ours was the only Bunker sidelined in the attack.”

Oh. _Oh._

“Nicholas Vaught and Michael… they don’t get along?”

Benny snorts a laugh. “They’re mortal enemies. Michael banished Vaught from the Hunters decades ago, before Castiel was even born.” 

Hell fire and shit sticks. 

Everything clicks into place. Dean closes his eyes, and rests his head against the stack, as he tries to sort this puzzle out. 

Once, long ago, Mary died. More than twenty years later, the Book of Life gets stolen, from right under Castiel’s nose. Nicholas Vaught, the brother to the Head of the Night Hunters, Castiel’s boss, hires Mary’s son to track the Book down and find it, but before he can, Michael accuses Vaught of theft, and attacks him anyway. 

Dean’s eyes fly open. 

He strides out of the stacks, and makes a beeline for Cas. Behind him, he hears Benny call his name, sees Charlie start in surprise. Another Hunter - the pretty doctor lady, Lisa - also tries to get Dean’s attention, but he ignores them all, heading straight for Castiel.

“Cas,” he calls. “Cas!”

Cas turns, from where he’s been talkin’ to a kid who’s a couple years younger than Dean. around Sam’s age, maybe, Dean thinks his name is… Samandriel? Alfie? One of those two, Dean doesn’t really care right now. 

“Dean?” 

“Cas,” Dean says, drawing close. He lowers his voice, and asks, “How did you find out that the Book was missing?” 

Cas looks around at the group, all of whom are watching them unabashedly. “Why?” he says, keeping his voice just as quiet as Dean’s.

“Cuz I’m pretty sure I know where it is.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

_**C A S T I E L** _

“You think Mary Campbell took the Book with her.” 

Samadriel sounds... incredulous. Castiel doesn't entirely disagree. Much as he trusts Dean - and he _does_ \- he also thinks that Dean is new to this world. He doesn’t understand the Hunters or the way they operate. 

“Mary _Winchester_ ,” Dean snipes at Alfie in response. “But yes. I’m darn sure of it.”

“How?” Charlie asks. When Dean whirls around on her, she throws her hands up, and says, “Just asking. You can’t make an accusation and then not back it up.” 

“Mary left over twenty years ago. How did nobody else find the Book missing all this time?” 

“Because only the Bunker-Head could access the Secret Vault,” Castiel answers. “Mary had access, because she was going to be the Head. But when she left… the Vault was Sealed.” 

“You should have had access when you became the Head, though,” Lisa points out. 

Castiel shakes his head. “I did, yes. But I never used it. I haven’t needed to.” He doesn’t say much more, hiding behind the simple truth that the rest of them would never question his word on this, as the Bunker-Head. 

The truth isn’t that he didn’t need to. It was just that he never _wanted_ to. Mary was supposed to be the Head. He has always felt like he was play-acting, taking on a role that was never his in the first place. 

Besides, The Book of Life is this Bunker’s greatest strength. They were made to protect it, and there was no one more fierce a guardian than Mary herself - it didn’t even occur to him to check for its safety, because she was the one caring for it. 

Dean grits his teeth. When he speaks, every syllable is low and measured. “It fits. Why else would Mary leave, so suddenly? Why would Vaught hire me to find it? I may have served in the Army and fought the War, but he’s got money and power, and can hire one of those fancy archaeologists!” 

“Don’t sell yourself short, Chief,” Benny says, from where he’s perched against the wall. “You weren’t the Mystery Raider for nothin’.”

The War-Room is fuller than it has been in a while, with Samandriel and Dean staring down at the live-figure Map of the whole Bunker that is positioned in the middle of the room. Charlie is seated at her usual spot, next to the window, her Potions and smaller maps of the city and the whole state spread out in front of her on the desk. Lisa is leaning against Benny on the other end, and Kelly, an ever-present guardian of the Bunker, is flashing on and off agitatedly on the string of lights above Charlie. 

“Even so, Benny,” Dean says, a little sardonically. “It still don’t make sense that he would track me down personally, and send someone specifically to get me to find the Book.” Dean meets Castiel’s gaze across the Map. “I gotta admit, I thought the whole thing was some kinda wild goose chase.” 

“Okay but,” Samandriel snaps. “Who killed Arthur Ketch then, genius? If Vaught needed you to find it, why the hell did he kill Ketch?” 

“You’re assuming he’s the one who killed Ketch,” Castiel says. Everyone’s eyes fly to him. He holds them steadily, the truth sinking into his bones like ash. 

“Who else could kill him?” Lisa asks with a frown. 

“Vaught wasn’t the only person who wanted the Book.” Charlie’s eyes are wide with horror. The same realization is dawning on her too. “There was someone else.” 

“No one else knew,” Samandriel says. “We didn’t find out until we were all punished, as a whole.” 

Castiel winces; Alfie is new, eager to get to the battlefield. He doesn’t quite yet understand the realities of war and bloodshed, and a part of Castiel hopes that he never will. 

“One person knew,” Dean says. “The one who gave the Book to my Ma in the first place.” 

“Michael,” Castiel finishes. “It had to be Michael.” 

“But why would Michael ask Mary to take the Book out?” Lisa says. “That does not make sense.”

“I don’t think he did,” Charlie says. “I think Mary was the one who took that Book out when she left.”

“How do you figure?” Dean asks, frowning. 

Charlie doesn’t reply. She turns to Castiel, her face drawn into a severe frown that he’s only ever seen twice before. “That day, Cas, when you returned from the Ketch mansion? Michael knew. I’m certain of it.” 

It clicks. Castiel jerks back, clenching his fists. The stone table beneath the Map feels cool against his fingers, a chilling reminder of what this means, if this is true. 

“What does that mean?” Dean snaps. “Cas?” 

“When I came back from Ketch mansion,” Castiel says, mind racing. “Michael was waiting for me. He knew that the Book was gone. I thought I had been remiss, that he’d caught wind of it from my own searching, because I was the one who lost it, and I was going to bring it back anyway I could.” 

“Shit,” Dean swears. “That wasn’t it… he was waiting, because he was watchin’ you.” 

“He _let_ the Book go missing,” Castiel finishes. “He’s just been waiting for us to go after it.”

“Why?” Benny asks. “Why set all of this up? Why didn’t he just get it back from Ketch if he knew? Why now?” 

“Because it was bait,” Charlie snaps her fingers. “It has to be. The second Vaught finds out, he sends Dean to get it, and that’s when he asks Castiel to bring the Book to Headquarters.” 

Castiel feels sickened. This whole thing… he, Dean, even Mary herself, were pawns in the game that Michael was playing. 

Did Mary know? When she took the Book, did she suspect that she was being used in a larger game of revenge? 

“He wanted to bring his brother back home? Wasn't he the one who banished him in the first place?” Dean looks between Charlie and Castiel, and then sighs. “And I thought my family was messed up.” 

“You dunno the half of it, brother.” Benny tells him. 

Samandriel still looks unconvinced. “Castiel,” he says, “think about what you’re saying. You’re accusing the Head of the Night-Hunters, you’re accusing _Michael_ , of lying, of pretense, of murder. You can’t seriously be thinking -”

“It’s the truth, kid, whether you wanna believe it or-” Dean sneers. 

“Dean,” Castiel touches him lightly on the shoulder. Dean falls silent immediately. Castiel turns to Alfie, and says, “If I am wrong, Alfie, then I will retract my statement gladly, and bear the consequences. No one in this room, or this whole Bunker, will have to face punishment on my behalf.” 

“Castiel, you have already -” 

**_Everybody on alert!_** Kelly’s voice is loud and frantic. _**The Bunker is under attack!**_


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

_**D E A N** _

For a moment, Dean is thrown back in time. Somewhere beyond him, something explodes. Glass shatters, screams echo, and Dean’s back there, with Shadow-Man, and Vaught, and he’s being dragged through blood, blood, _blood -_

“Dean!” 

Blue eyes. He knows this, this is safe. 

“Dean, come on!” 

And Dean comes back to himself, violently, when Castiel grabs his hand and yanks him. He coughs, swallowing the bile that has risen to his throat, and then nods. Later, he tells his body, _panic later, when you got the time for it._

“I-I’m fine,” he pants out. “Go save your Hunters.”

Castiel leans in, and places a harsh kiss against his lips. Dean curls his hand in Cas’s hair, savoring it, before it ends all too soon. Pulling back, he holds his hands out, and whispers something. A moment later, a familiar sword materializes in his hands. 

“Cas-” 

“Take it,” Cas thrusts it at Dean. “It will protect you.” 

“You-”

“Will be fine, I’ve got my staff and my Blade.” Another blade, a smaller one that looks more like a long knife, appears in his hand. “Please, Dean.” 

Dean breathes in sharply and nods. “Don’t die on me,” he orders. “I got plans for you.”

Cas grins, a little wild, a little beautiful, and says, “You also.” Then, he’s back up on his feet, and off, running into the chaos to help his Hunters. 

Dean struggles to his feet, and finds Benny at his shoulder. His fangs are down, and his eyes are glowin’, but it’s _Benny_. Dean meets his gaze, and they nod in unison - they’re in instant synchrony, a trust that comes only through long days of battle and fire. 

Charlie is yelling orders behind them. There’s a long, burgundy staff in her hand that she’s rolling around with ease, and Dean can’t help but admire how nimble she is on her feet as she clears a path for them. 

“Out!” she yells. “Get to the Archives! There’s a tunnel there we can use to get out! Benny, get the younger kids to safety. Alfie, cover my side. Kelly, help me with the lights!” Without waiting for a reply, she moves her staff in a complicated pattern that takes Dean a moment to realize as being a sigil. _“Ignis!”_

A fireball appears at the end of her staff, even as the lights go out, everywhere in the Bunker. The string of lights hanging across the walls - of all the rooms, Dean realizes, not just here or the Infirmary - blinks once, twice, and then vanishes. A moment later, a dull, dark silhouette of a woman appears, floating right in front of Charlie. On her back, delicate butterfly wings spread flutter agitatedly. 

Dean blinks. “Kelliana?” 

_Nice to finally meet you, Dean Winchester._

There is the sense of a smile, and then it vanishes, as the silhouette takes flight, following Charlie out of the room. She uses her wings to shield the redhead when a fireball races towards her, deflecting it easily, and Dean has to push down the awe he feels. 

He thrusts and parries, and more often than not, barely wounds the enemies, who outnumber them three to one. _Other Bunker soldiers,_ he realizes, all tasked with... what? Getting rid of this one, the same way they were supposed to take Vaught mansion out? 

They’re lethal soldiers, every single one of them. Staffs, swords, blades, and many using little more than their fists, masters of martial arts. Dean is no slouch - he went through a War and his Dad was a soldier before he settled down with Ma - but they’ve got magic on their side, and it feels like for every one Hunter he cuts down, two more pops up.

His arms are tiring, he’s beginning to have trouble breathing, when he feels it. 

A thread, pulling him away from the fight. Dean swings his sword blindly, trying to cut it, but it just moves to the side, side-stepping him neatly. It yanks at him, at his soul, and Dean thinks, **Cas, Cas help!**

And then Dean follows. 

_**C A S T I E L** _

Castiel’s heart aches with every Hunter he incapacitates. He is trying as hard as he can to only harm them, not kill them - leg wounds, shoulder wounds, that sort of thing - but he can only do so much when he is trying to defend himself. Each time one of them falls, he can’t help but wonder if he knows them, if that’s someone he thought was a friend. Because they are Hunters, he knows - he recognizes the distinctive fighting style, and even if he didn’t, nobody else would be able to trap them as effectively as they have done. 

**Cas! Cas, help!**

Castiel stiffens. Dean. that was Dean. 

He does not stop to wonder how it happens. There is a tug at the end of his consciousness, and he simply follows it, allowing instinct to guide him to where it wants to be. 

Hunters line his way like chessmen, appearing one by one in front of him. He is desperate, cutting down one, and then another, and then another, mindlessly hacking away - 

\- Dean needs him, Dean _needs him -_

\- that is the Secret Vault, Dean shouldn’t be able to access that - 

\- and a familiar form claps, slow and steady, as Dean floats in the air, submerged in a pillow of green light, eyes glowing, the Book of Life open before him. Next to him, another figure stands, shorter, but with menacing eyes that take their turns glaring at Castiel, Dean and Michael, one after the other.

“Castiel,” Michael says. “Welcome. I did not think you would make it this far. I don’t believe you’ve met my brother?” he gestures to the man next to him. 

“Michael,” Castiel says. He looks at the man next to him - Nicholas Vaught. “You have been working together all this time.” 

That can’t be right. The pieces are all here, Castiel just can’t put them together - why would Michael let Mary take the Book if he wasn’t planting a bait for Vaught? Why would he kill Ketch? Why would he take Dean hostage? 

Everything in Castiel is screaming, screaming to go to Dean’s aid. But… Not yet. Just a little longer. 

“Not quite,” Michael smiles. He stands out in stark contrast to the destruction around them. Cleanly pressed pants and a dress-shirt, a tie neatly wound around his neck, his dark hair slicked back, one would expect him at a bank or a restaurant, not at the helm of a siege. “Once, long ago, perhaps, we were. Now,” he looks at Vaught who is glaring at him, “Now, we are on opposite sides.” 

“Why?” Castiel asks. “Why did you do all this?” 

Michael barely casts him a glance. Instead, he walks over to Dean, and inspects him, patting his cheek. Castiel snarls, throwing a fireball at him that Michael easily catches and vanishes.

“Tch tch,” he hums. “Such violence. I thought you better than that, Castiel.” 

“You’re the one killing innocents out there,” Castiel grits out. “Not me.” 

“Collateral damage,” Michael shrugs. “The ends justify the means.”

“And what ends are those?” 

In lieu of an answer, Michael turns back to Dean. He reaches out a hand to touch the Book, hissing and drawing it back when it flares up with a bright green light. 

_It burned him,_ Castiel thinks. _He can’t touch it._

Another piece of the puzzle falls into place. 

“You can’t use it,” he breathes. “You need a vessel.” 

Michael glances at him, amused. “Again, not quite.”

Castiel frowns, trying to recall the lore behind the Book. The Book of Life, it is said, is to have the names of all those who would attain Heaven. It was The Book of the Righteous, with great power, never meant to be used, but only to record life’s great mysteries and stories. 

“You’ve used it,” Castiel realizes, horror churning the pit of his stomach. “You used the Book before.”

Michael inclines his head. “Do you know what I used to call my brother, Castiel?” he says. “Lucifer. Not for the devil, mind you, but for the angel who loved God the best, the angel who shone brightly and adored his brother. Nicholas and I were like Michael and Lucifer of old. We were everything to each other - sort of like your Dean and his Sam.” He smiles, and for a second, Castiel sees sadness in it, not the deranged anger that’s been carrying his face for so long. “But Lucifer was jealous. He wanted to lead the Night Hunters. I did not know. If I had known… well, it is of no consequence.”

“Did you kill him?” Castiel asks, keeping his voice steady. 

“I did.” Michael nods. “He attacked me, and I was only defending myself. But he was my brother. And I loved him.” 

“So you used The Book to bring him back,” Castiel says. “It still doesn’t explain why you have Dean captured. Let him go, Michael.” 

Michael shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Castiel. I wish I could. But Mary… Mary’s bloodline is key. The one true Guardian, who can protect the Book, and _use_ it. You see,” he continues, conversationally, “The Book, once used, cannot be used again by anyone else. Only the Book’s Guardian may do that.”

And Dean is the Guardian. That doesn't need to be said, not with the way Dean hangs in the air, silent as a puppet, ready for Michael to _use_ for his own agenda.

Castiel wants to scream at Michael, tell him that Dean is so much more than that. Just as Mary was. They’re people, better in fact, than most people than Castiel knows. 

“You already used the Book once,” Castiel says. “Why do you need it again?” 

“So many questions, Castiel,” Michael chuckles. “Just like Mary.” He sounds fond. 

It sickens Castiel. 

“She kept asking me too - why did I need the Book? Why must I raise someone dead? Why couldn’t I just move on?” Michael’s face turned to Vaught. “She didn’t understand that he was my _brother_.” 

For the first time, Castiel notices the stillness present in Nicholas Vaught. He is snarling at Michael, but he hasn’t moved since Castiel got here. There is a kind of stillness about him, as if… he’s being held down that way. 

“Dear Lord,” Castiel says, horrified. “You are controlling him.” 

“Only his body,” Michael waves his hand. “Just until I can truly raise his spirit. That, Castiel, is what happens when someone not of the bloodline uses the Book - the person they raise does not return fully.” 

“I. am. not. broken.” Vaught sounds labored, but the venom on his face is frightening. 

Michael’s face twists. “You _are_ ,” he hisses, “You need to be _fixed_ , Nicholas. You loved sunsets and wine and dancing. You are not... not _this_ ,” he points to the tattered clothes Vaught is wearing, and the disheveled nature of his appearance. 

He turns to Castiel. “Enough,” he says, “I tire of this.” he holds his hand out and his sword appears - a blazing blade, red in color, fire dancing at the edges. “Come Castiel. Let us be done with this farce, while Dean brings my brother back to life.” 

Castiel swallows tightly. He has grown up, watching this sword in awe, watching Michael wield it with the deathly grace that anointed him the Head of all the Night-Hunters. It doesn’t matter; Castiel might be almost certainly doomed to fail, but it’s _Dean._

He is slowly coming to realize that there is nothing he will not do for Dean. 

With a loud cry, he throws his blade from one hand to the other, and charges. 

_**D E A N** _

Dean remembers.

Once, long ago, back when Dad was still trying, fresh from the loss of Ma, with two little boys, one of whom would not stop crying. Dean stopped talking for three months, but Sam… Sam was a baby. 

One night, Sam just would not sleep. No matter what Dean tried, no matter how many times he walked him across the room, pet his back or sang him lullabies, Sam didn’t wanna sleep. 

Dad had walked in then, drunk off his ass, and barely keepin’ it together. Dean was sure he was going to get punched that day, and he hovered close to his brother, terrified that they were both going to be hurt. 

They weren’t. Dad took one look at them, and sank into the couch. He made Dean sit next to him, with Sam on his lap. For the first time since Ma’s passing that Dean could remember, Dad held Sammy. He held up his alcohol bottle, and used the candlelight to make shadows across the room. Sammy had fallen silent almost immediately, hiccuping fascinatedly at the shapes and sounds that Dad was making. 

That’s what the world feels like now, hanging in suspension. As though he is looking through that bottle, everything cast in shadows and dim lights. There is a green edge to the light, though, an edge he knows intimately - his own power. His very soul, tied to The Book he’s holding. 

In the distance, he sees Cas, arguing with Michael. He sees him, and hears him, but it feels so far away. As though nothing is real anymore. 

Everything weighs so heavy on him. Dad’s a mess. Dean has been carin’ for him his whole life, and Sammy too, and he just wants to sleep. It was supposed to be okay when he awoke - Cas _promised_ him it would be okay.

Words swim across his vision. Specific words - of power, of love, of _hate_. He can speak them, and then, he will rest. And when he wakes, everything will be fixed. 

_That’s right,_ a voice in his head whispers. _That’s right, Dean. Just read the words. You can rest after._

Obediently, Dean opens his mouth to read. 

_**Dean, no!** _

Dean startles. **Cas?**

_**Dean, come back to me, please!** _

He shakes his head. **No, Cas, I just need to read this.**

 _ **Dean, please.**_ Cas is begging? Cas doesn’t beg. _**Dean, I love you, please -**_

Dean stiffens. _**You’re not Cas,**_ he tells the voice angrily. _ **Cas doesn’t love me, you’re lying!**_

 _He is lying, Dean,_ says the first voice, silky and smooth and soft. _He is trying to stop you from resting. He doesn’t care for you -_

**_Dean, please. You know me. You shared my memories. Please Dean. Come back to me._ **

**You’re lying!**

_**Am I?**_ The voice is steady now. A vast, powerful consciousness presses against his own. Once, Dean would have called that mind alien. Now, it feels like home. _**Remember Dean, please, memory is just feeling, please remember that moment -**_

Cas, smiling shy. Little Cas, throwing himself at Ma, who loved him enough to care for him. Cas, beautiful and smart, and still defendin’ Dean, of all people, against his own Hunters. Cas, who promised him a future. 

_He’s lying, Dean,_ the other voice insists. _He wants you to awake now, before you’re ready. He wants you to fail -_

 **It don’t matter,** he tells the voice. **It don’t matter if I fail, because I can try again. As long as I ain’t alone, I can keep trying.**

_You insolent child! You-_

**Get the hell,** Dean growls, outta my head. He allows instinct to take over, as he screams, **Relinquo! Leave!**

The voice screams in his head, louder, louder, an unholy shriek of suffering and pain and loss and Dean cries with it, missing Ma, missing Cas, missing Sam and Dad, and even himself -

\- it goes quiet. 

Dean is alone again. 

_**C A S T I E L** _

“Dean!” Castiel screams, desperate. He is exhausted. Blood is dripping - from where, he can’t tell, his body is too numb for any pain. 

Michael’s face, in front of him, is twisted into a grotesque snarl. Castiel parries another thrust, fire running through his veins, as he begs Dean to come back to him - come back come back come back - 

“I should’ve killed you when I had the chance,” Michael growls. “I should’ve known Mary trained you in her image - always asking questions, always disobeying.” 

“I do what is right, Michael,” Castiel snarls back. “We are not your pawns.” 

_**Remember Dean, please, memory is just feeling, please remember that moment -** _

He presses his consciousness against Dean’s, begs him to return, and allows the memory of the moments to pool together. Castiel is in _love_ , and he wants to _live_ that love - he doesn’t want to die yet, not when they have a whole life ahead of them. 

_**Dean!** _

The momentary distraction costs him dearly. Michael sidesteps him, and thrusts up - 

\- into Castiel’s side, pressing his sword in deep enough to impale him through the flesh. 

Castiel drops to the floor. _**Please, Dean,**_ he begs. _**Please.**_

Dean screams. 

The pillar of green, eerie light he has been encased in shatters to bathe them all in bright, iridescent color. Castiel stares weakly up at Dean, the corner of his lips curving up into a small smile before he spits out a mouthful of blood. 

_**Dean.** _

Dean is unearthly. Castiel has been so lucky to love him, even if for a short while. 

**No,** Dean’s mind yells into his. **No, you bastard. You don’t get to leave me now. You promised, remember? You promised you’d be safe!**

Everything hurts. Castiel breathes heavily, and says, _**Promise me. You will not use The Book to bring me back… you will not turn into Michael.**_

**Cas, you son of a -**

_**Promise me!** _

**I promise,** Dean chokes out. He stumbles to the floor, near Castiel, and grabs his hands, and Castiel smiles again, grateful that the last thing he will ever see, is Dean’s beautiful eyes. **I promise I won’t use The Book, because you’re gonna be fine, you goddamn bastard, you’re gonna be fine -**

 _ **I’m sorry,**_ Castiel coughs. He has no breath to use his voice. So he whispers into his mind instead, _**I love you Dean. I am sorry.**_

His eyes close. 

If Castiel could wake, he would see that Dean’s scream of pain earth-shattering in a very literal sense. He would see Nicholas Vaught scream in pain before Dean bore the shackles Michael held him in. He would see that Dean would be ready to control him to do his bidding, but doesn’t need to anyway, because Nicholas’s anger is that of a brother betrayed. He would see Michael and Nicholas fight, see them both fall, and see both breathe their last as Dean reads from The Book of Life, banishing them to the Underworld forever. 

If Castiel were awake, he would see Dean fall to his knees and crawl to him and hold him tight. He would hear the thousand pleas Dean cries out. He would see the blood on Dean’s hands, and see the way Dean pumps at his heart, begging him to come back again and again and again. He would hear the sobbed _I love yous_ that Dean whispers into his ears. 

If Castiel were awake, he would whisper, **_I love you too._**

But Castiel is not awake, so he does hear nor see any of these things. 

Castiel does not awake, because Castiel is gone.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

_**C A S T I E L** _

There is a woman.

Long golden hair hangs down her side in a braid thrown over her shoulder in a manner that strikes him as being… wrong. It is lovely, but that isn't how she looked. Not to him.

She wears a long dress, made of cotton, and colored a light green. It suits her, but this too strikes him as wrong. _There should be a pendant,_ he thinks, hanging down her neck. Instead there is a ring, silver, embossed with the carvings of vines and leaves. As pretty an ornament as it is, it still feels wrong. 

“Castiel,” she smiles. _This,_ he thinks, _is right._ Her smile has always been right. “Oh honey,” she laughs. She pulls him close to her and hugs him. 

He sinks into it. He has been longing for this for so long, has been so lonely for so long, that he cannot help it. There is anger, yes, anger and loneliness at being abandoned, but beneath all that, there is the love of the child who just wants a hug. 

“Oh Cas,” Mary weeps. “Cas, thank you, I’m sorry - I’m sorry - I’m sorry -”

Her tears wet his chest. It does not matter. He holds her close, breathes in the scent of the herbs she taught him about, and thinks, _I am dead._

Mary pulls back. He starts in surprise, and then yelps when she smacks him across the arm. 

“You are most certainly not dead,” she tells him. “Open your mind, Cas, and listen.” 

He stares at her in confusion and she rolls her eyes. “ _Listen_ , Cas. Don’t you hear him calling for you?”

With a sigh, he closes his eyes, and extends his mind.

And hears, somewhere in the dark, a voice. Calling for him. Asking him to return. 

**Cas, please, come back. I need you.**

“Dean,” Castiel murmurs. Understanding returns, piece by piece as he recognizes himself, and the voice. “Dean’s calling for me.”

“He is,” Mary smiles. “My boys.” The tears are falling silently now, a benediction instead of anguish, and he finds himself smiling back at her. “You found one another, and I am so glad.” 

“He shouldn’t come here,” Castiel says. “He shouldn’t use The Book-”

“He’s not.” She leans in and pets his cheek. “He promised you. He won't break that promise."

“Then how-?” 

“Do you not feel it, Cas?” she asks softly. “Close your eyes, kid. Feel.” 

The endearment aches. Castiel closes his eyes, and pokes at his mind, breathing out slowly. _**Dean,**_ he thinks. _**Dean, don’t come. Dean, Dean, Dean -**_ He opens his eyes with a gasp. “He’s tethered his soul to mine?”

“ _You_ did, actually. When you heard him that first time, and allowed his soul to touch yours. You called out for him." Mary grins. "He’s simply found the link back to you now.”

“But that- that means-”

“Neither of you can die without the other,” Mary nods. 

As though to prove her words, something next to them glows. It is a small light, barely a pinprick, and he knows, instinctively, that it is a tear in the fabric of reality itself. 

A moment later, Dean stands there, his face uncertain, loss etched into each line, eye red-rimmed, face tear-tracked, his entire body covered in blood and soot and ash. 

“Cas!” 

They fall into each other, holding on tightly, a mess of limbs and muscle and tears. He’s not sure whose tears are on his tongue, but he decides he doesn’t care, when Dean pulls back, and says, quietly, “I love you. Don’t you ever do that to me again, ya hear?” 

Castiel laughs, and leans in, gently kissing the corner of his mouth. 

“When I took The Book away and hid it with Ketch, I did not expect this to happen, but I can’t say that I’m not happy about it.” 

They both turn to see Mary watching them, a wide smile on her face. Dean goes stiff in Castiel’s arms, eyes widening and filling again. “Ma?” he whispers. 

“Dean,” she replies. “Come here, baby.” 

Dean throws himself at her, pulling her close and hugging her tight. He’s blabbering words into her shoulder, but Castiel can make out only _You’re here,_ and _I love you,_ and _Ma,_ Ma, Ma, and it hurts, so he turns away. 

Memories press in. Old ones and new ones, spectres of the truth that he has been avoiding. “You left The Book with Ketch. You knew him?” 

Mary pulls back from Dean slightly, but does not leave his embrace. “Once, long ago,” she says. “Michael used The Book to bring his brother back, but The Book of Life is never meant to be used in selfishness. When Lucifer returned, he was not himself - he was alive, certainly, but he was an agent of Death.” 

“And Michael wanted his brother back,” Dean mutters. 

Mary hums her agreement. “So he wanted me to fix it somehow. As the Book’s Guardian, I have some level of… not control, not exactly. But a kind of expertise, in knowing how to read it.” 

“How was he able to use it?” Dean asks. “Without the Guardian…”

“He wasn’t. My father helped him then. I had no idea - I was still in training.” Mary sighs. “When he brought Lucifer back wrong, Michael killed him. That was when he asked me to do it.” 

“You refused,” Castiel realizes. “And took The Book with you.”

“I hid it with Ketch, who isn’t a Hunter, but he has some ties to our world… I knew Michael only let me get away with it, because he was planning something, but I was not certain what.” She pauses, and says, “Not until my death, at least.”

“He wanted to use me,” Dean says. “He thought I would be easier to manipulate than you.”

“Especially since you were not raised in Night-world,” Mary says. “I wanted to protect you, but…” 

Dean hugs her. “I don’t blame you, Ma,” he says quietly. “I am angry, but… I understand.” 

Mary holds out another arm, and drags Castiel closer. For a long moment, nothing passes except the sound of sniffles and tears and quiet _I love yous_ meant only for them. Then, Mary straightens, and gently pushes them back. 

“Go now,” she says, her smile watery but real. “Go home. Do not return for at least another seventy years.” 

“Ma,” Dean drinks in the sight of her. “Ma-”

“Tell Sam I love him?” she whispers, holding her hand to her face. 

Dean nods. “Of course.” 

She heaves a loud breath in, and then kisses Castiel’s cheek. “I’m proud of you,” she says, “Of both of you. Sam too.” 

“Love you,” Castiel murmurs. “Goodbye, Mary.”

When the light fades this time, Castiel goes with it. 

*-*-*

The ground is cold and hard beneath him. 

Castiel groans, and rolls over, and then yelps in pain, as his entire side burns. Next to him, Dean stirs, and then sits up, rubbing his eyes hazily until he realizes where they are. 

“You,” he breathes. A second later, he punches Castiel’s uninjured arm, in the exact spot his mother did, and Castiel feels a laugh bubble in his throat, despite the way his body aches. “Cas, you asshole!” 

He’s crying, Castiel sees. Crying openly, unashamedly, and the vulnerability makes Castiel want to weep with him. 

“I was trying to save your life-”

“By gettin’ killed yourself?” Dean snaps. “You’re mine, you son of a bitch, you don’t get to run out on me like that again!” 

No one, Castiel thinks, in the world, expresses affection the way Dean does. It warms him from the inside, and he hugs Dean, pulling him close and kissing him - on the mouth, on the cheek, on his neck - anywhere he can find skin. 

_“Dean, you fucker!”_

Castiel raises an eyebrow as Dean pulls back with a sigh. “What is that?” 

“That,” Dean says, a little sheepish, “Is what happens when you sneak away from Charlie. _You_ should know this.” 

“I do,” Castiel nods solemnly, “Which is why I am going to plead innocence by way of death.” 

Dean’s eyes narrow at him. “You can’t use that all your life-”

“Dean!” Charlie strides in, hands on her hips, as she glares down at them, “Dean what the hell - _Cas?!”_ she yelps at the sight of him awake and alive. “Cas?” 

Castiel blinks at her as innocently as he knows how. “Hello, Charlie.”

“Cas!” she throws herself at both of them, sobbing into chest. When Dean tries to escape, she snakes a slim, pale arm out to grab him and yank him back towards her bodily. “No,” she tells him wetly, “You stay right here until I am finished with you.”

“It’s cold, Red!” Dean protests. “My ass hurts!” 

“You should’ve thought of that before you stole Cas’s body and brought him down to the Vault,” Charlie tells him tartly. 

“I needed to reproduce the energies of this place for the spell!” he protests. 

“And what made you think I - or Benny or Lisa or Kelly for that matter - wouldn’t help?” one red eyebrow raises itself up, and Dean sputters, unable to formulate a response. 

“Charlie,” Castiel says. “Perhaps we can deal with this tomorrow?” he pats her cheek. “I would… like some time to recuperate. With Dean. please.” 

She grimaces. “Don’t tell me. Ever. I don’t want to know. Anything.”

“Why not?” Dean smirks. “Too much for your delicate lady sensibilities?”

Charlie snorts. “More like too much penis for my vagina-liking sensibilities,” she retorts. 

“Charlie!" Dean looks scandalized. Castiel hides a grin; he is looking forward to watching his best friend fully integrate herself in Dean's life. He's not sure Dean can entirely handle her. 

“You asked,” Charlie shrugs. “Now get off your ass, I’m going to go let the others know Cas is okay.” She gets to her feet and bounds off. 

Dean rolls his eyes and hands his hand out to Castiel. “Shall we?” his expression is shy, and Castiel finds him so, _so_ lovely. 

It takes them what feels like hours to get to Castiel’s room. Lisa insists on checking him out, and Kelly Heals as much of the damage as she can even in her weakened state. Benny hugs him and Samandriel, bless his soul, cries on Castiel’s shoulder, and repeatedly apologizes until Dean tells him, exasperatedly, that _it’s all forgiven kid!_ By the time they finally return to Castiel’s room, he’s ready to collapse, and the only person he wants to see is Dean. 

The door swings shut behind them with a loud clang. 

Castiel stands there, just taking in the sight of his room, feeling the heat of Dean behind him. Dean has, apparently, moved in here. His things are strewn all across the room, clothes on the bed, shoes below, and The Book of Life, sitting innocuously on the desk. A snort of helpless laughter begins somewhere low in his stomach and then escapes into the air as he falls against Dean. 

“Cas?” Dean asks, a little uncertainly. “Cas, I thought I’d just stay here, I didn’t - is that okay?” 

Castiel whirls around and kisses him. “You,” he says, “Are an idiot. Of course it’s alright.” 

Dean relaxes. “Then why are you laughing?” 

Castiel gestures to The Book of Life. “It’s… it’s just _there_!” he bursts into loud giggles again, "On my desk!" When he peeks up, Dean looks a little baffled, and a whole lot affectionate, and honestly, that’s exactly what Castiel needs right now. 

“You are such a dork,” Dean sighs. 

With a gentle touch, he herds Castiel down to the bed, and helps him strip. Castiel lets the blood-stained clothes drop to the floor - he never wants to see them again, or to remember the past couple of weeks. 

Dean traces the sigil for c _lean_ into the air, and Castiel watches, as the spell takes them both. A moment later, they’re both clean, as though they just bathed. 

“You are getting good at that,” he comments. 

Dean shrugs. “Been practicin’,” he says. “C’mere.” He takes Castiel’s hand and pushes him on to the bed. 

Everything hurts. 

Here, in a moment of quiet between them, Castiel breathes. A little uneasily, if he is honest, because he is not certain how to touch Dean now that they aren’t dying, but he _breathes_. 

Dean moves in close, kisses Castiel, but doesn’t push. They both just lie there, for long moments, allowing their hearts to beat into the silence of the room, curled together, skin against skin. 

Finally, Dean murmurs, “Make love to me?” 

Castiel smiles. “As you wish.” 

He rolls them over, looming over Dean, who goes pliant beneath his hands. His body aches, but the pain fades away in the warmth of Dean’s eyes and the heat of his touch. For all that Dean sells himself as a rough, angry soldier, he is truly soft, kind in a way few people are. 

He’s also loud, Castiel discovers as he pulls off Dean's underwear and mouths at his cock. He tastes like the earth, a little salty and a little dirty, but underneath that, there is the smell of wet mud and creek. It makes Castiel’s knees go weak. 

When he pulls off with a wet pop, Dean pulls him up, careful not to press down on his injuries. He kisses Castiel, tasting himself on Castiel’s tongue, and his hands drop to Castiel’s bottom, pinching at the cloth still covering it. “Off,” he grumbles. 

Castiel laughs. “Little impatient, aren’t we?” he teases. 

Dean raises an eyebrow. “I mean, I _do_ wanna get fucked some time before tonight ends.”

Castiel groans at that image, his head thumping against Dean’s shoulder. It’s Dean’s turn to laugh, his soft chuckle reverberating against Castiel’s chest, and Castiel bites at his neck in retaliation. 

It is slow, gentle in a way Castiel hasn’t ever known before. When he pulls the oil out from the loose floorboard beneath his bed, Dean waggles his eyebrows with another laugh. 

“Enjoy yourself a lot, do you?” he asks. 

“I’m a Hunter, not a monk,” Castiel grouches. He slaps one round ass-cheek, and Dean yelps, dissolving into the pillows with a low moan that sends heat up Castiel’s spine. _Soon,_ he promises them both silently, soon, they will explore that side of themselves. 

For now, he coats his fingers in oil and begins to prepare Dean, first one finger and then another, and then a third. Dean wiggles his ass, and shoots Castiel a smile over his shoulder. 

When he is fully ensconced inside of Dean, holding him close and burying his face in Dean’s neck, it occurs to him that there shouldn’t be this much laughter in sex, there never has been before, but somehow, it is all the more perfect. He thrusts slowly at first, allowing Dean to get used to the intrusion, and allowing himself to adapt to the tight, tight heat around him. 

Then, “Faster!” Dean cries, and Castiel moves, always helpless to obey Dean’s orders. He came back from the edge of death for Dean. He can do this. 

He thrusts, harder and faster, until the slap of skin against skin echoes across the small room. Dean babbles, wordless cries and sounds falling out of his mouth, until Castiel swallows even that, kissing him again, and again, and again, until they aren’t even doing anything but breathing each other’s air. Dean is his, and he is Dean’s, and this is now the fundamental fact their lives are going to be built around. 

A newly-familiar, beloved mind touches his, and Castiel surrenders easily, opening up to Dean, even as he strokes Dean’s cock in a rhythm counter to his own thrusts. Dean presses close, physically and metaphysically, and Castiel takes him, allowing him to see all those parts of himself, ugly and dirty, and violent, as the Head of the Bunker and Dean, in turn, allows him to see the angry, abandoned child, and the outcast soldier who almost died for his country, and they still threw him out anyway because he loved both men and women. 

_**You’re mine,** _Castiel tells him fiercely. _**I will not let you go, so long as you wish to stay.**_

“I-I,” Dean groans, “I wanna-” **Stay, Cas,** “-always.”

“Good,” Castiel says. He bites down on Dean’s nipple the same time he jerks his cock, harsh and hot, and then thrusts in once, twice, thrice, until Dean comes across his hand, and he follows him over the edge. 

They take their time coming back to themselves. Castiel plays with Dean’s fingers, kissing them softly, and Dean makes a face, affectionate and exasperated, all at the same time. They curl up in bed, Dean pulling Castiel on top himself, citing his injuries, because he is nothing if not a caretaker. 

Tomorrow, they will rise, and figure out what to do with The Book of Life. They will talk to Charlie, who will help them reorganize all the Bunkers. Castiel will take over Michael’s position as Head, not just of his Bunker, but of all the Night-Hunters. Charlie will still be his second-in-command, because as much as Dean loves him that level of politicking and power is not his thing. 

Instead, he will return home, to a worried Sam and Bobby and Ellen. Even _Dad’s_ been sittin’ up and worryin’ about him. Dean will hug his brother and call for Cas, who will meet Sam with the same shy smile he shot at Mary. Together, they will tell their family the truth about Mary Winchester. 

Sam will cry, and then thank Cas for looking after Dean so much. They will bond instantly, over books and magic, and Dean will watch them with a fond smile, because he knew that they would get along. Dad, on the other hand, will simply sit still, and then go off to his bedroom. Dean won’t know this, but John will cry when he’s alone, and allow himself to finally feel the grief he’s been running away from for two decades, tryin’ to find Mary in a bottle when he shoulda been lookin’ for her in his boys. When he finally comes out, Dean will ask him to go to that fancy new rehabilitation centre, and this time, John will go of his own accord. 

Bobby will only roll his eyes and tell them to bring him lore books. Ellen will smack her husband on the arm, take one look at Castiel and then adopt him like she adopted Dean and Sam, and Cas will feel a motherly touch he hasn’t felt in years, the same as Dean. Jo will tease Dean about Cas constantly, until she meets Charlie and goes slaw-jacked. It will be Dean’s turn to tease her then, and because he is the best big brother ever, he will propose to Charlie on behalf of his pseudo-sister, who will whack his head, but go on the date anyway.

In a year, Dean and Castiel will marry. It isn’t legal yet, of course, but in the Night-world, they are already soul-bonded. They do not need a document to tell them that; the ceremony is simply a way to celebrate them with their whole family. Jo and Charlie will finally kiss on that day, and a Hunter from another Bunker, Eileen, will chase his wily brother down. Six months after that, she will ask Dean for his blessing to marry Sam, which he will give gladly. A year after that, Charlie and Jo will also marry quietly, and Dean will be the Best Man for Jo, and Castiel for Charlie. Eileen will teach them all how to sign.

A few years down the line, there will be children. Four of them. Claire, they will find on the roadside, lost and alone, and attaching herself to Castiel easily. Ben, Lisa will ask for, and they will agree, because she is family, and family is everything. Emma and Jack, Kelly will bring to them, fairy changelings that nobody else will want. Dean will take one look at Emma’s angry face and instantly fall in love. Castiel will bond with Jack when the boy will speak to no one. They will be a family of mismatched creatures and humans. 

When the Second Great War comes, Castiel will lead sow the seeds of the Night-Hunters' future. He will lead them in quiet raids that the government will not know about - there will be miraculous victories for their side. Dean will worry, and this will lead to some of their worst fights, because Dean may be the Guardian of The Book of Life, but he isn't a Night-Hunter. He will stay home with the kids to protect them, and when the War finally ends, and Cas comes home, Dean will hold him close and pray, for the first time in a long time, to thank God for his husband's safe return. 

When Claire grows, she will take over Castiel’s position as Head of all Hunters. She won’t do it alone though; Kaia, none other than Missouri Moseley’s granddaughter, will have fallen in love with her. Together, they will lead the Hunters into a new path, moving the Night-world from the fringes to the light. The world will be in an uproar, but the people from what had once been Castiel’s Bunker will help smooth the transition and nudge the world along. Ben, as Dean’s biological son, will become the Guardian of The Book. His cousin, Jesse, Sam and Eileen’s son, will share the duty with him, a calming counterpoint influence to Ben’s sometimes fast-flaring temper. They will be the liaisons in the government, bridging the gap across different cultures. Eventually, peace will be established between the Night-world and our world. 

Dean, and Cas, more than a hundred years old, will finally kiss their children and grandchildren goodbye. They will lie down in bed, and smile at one another. They will kiss one last time, and sleep.

When they awake, everything will be even better, because there will be Mary, awaiting them, and they will join her, waiting for the rest of their family to join them. 

But that is in the future. 

For now, there is Dean, and there is Cas. There is their love, echoing across their link, bounding back and forth, multiplying each time it moves between them. 

And that is enough.


End file.
